


The Love I Sell You In the Evening, By The Morning Won't Exist

by sweetbutterbliss



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Babies, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Brief Mention of Eames/OC, Canon Compliant, Cesarean Section, Fluff, Happy Ending, Jealous Eames, M/M, Mpreg, Oral Sex, Pining, Poor Life Choices, Public Sex, Unhealthy Relationships, Unrequited Love, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-01-27 02:30:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 27,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1711709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetbutterbliss/pseuds/sweetbutterbliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They have an arrangement, they fuck occasionally and have each others' back always. Arthur tries to convince himself that it's good enough, that he'll take what he can get and usually that works for him. Arthur is very good at denial. He finds it harder to pretend when Eames shows up for a job with someone else's mark on him and jokingly tells Arthur "Not this time, love. Trying to make an honest man of myself.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Bright Eyes' [ Lua. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5aZh261KZWI)
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely [ Heather. ](http://haveyoumethoward.tumblr.com/)  
> I forgot to mention but about a month ago she met Tom and got to talk to him and touch him. Most importantly she says he smells fantastic. So...*dreamy sigh* It has nothing to do with the fic, it just makes me happy to think about.

Eames manhandles Arthur into the bathroom, ignoring his squawk of protest. He smirks and makes a show of flicking the lock before striding over and crowding Arthur up against the tiled wall. Arthur continues to protest, citing bank accounts and test runs, but they are easily stoppered when Eames presses his mouth over Arthur's.

The kiss would be chaste if it weren't for the roll of his hips against Arthur's narrower ones. Arthur sighs and gives in, opening his mouth and letting Eames slide his tongue in, the slick sounds of their mouths colliding echoing off the bathroom walls. They don't usually do this type of thing during a job, especially at the house they're using for planning, with their colleagues a room or two away. But Arthur can't resist Eames, no matter how much he tries. 

He sucks in a breath when Eames drops to his knees gracefully, his big hands undoing Arthur's belt and wasting no time in pulling out his already hard cock. He breathes on it and raises his eyebrows at Arthur as though asking for permission, that maddening little smile stuck on his face. He licks it from root to tip once, twice, then without warning, takes it all the way down his throat and Arthur has to bite his lip to keep himself from moaning out loud. He breathes through his nose as Eames gives him a messy, yet efficient blow job, designed to have him orgasming too soon. His brain being sucked out through his dick is just a side effect; that comes with Eames.

Arthur slumps against the wall, his legs shaking, and threads his hands through Eames' short hair. He huffs and whispers Eames' name, wanting desperately to cry out and fuck the other man's mouth. He's coming soon and he tugs at Eames' short strands as a warning, but Eames stays put. If anyone can still have a arrogant smirk whilst sucking cock, it's Eames. Arthur bites his lip so hard he tastes blood when he comes, silently shivering and bucking forward. Eames sits back on his heels, letting Arthur see his Adam's apple bob as he swallows his come and Arthur can't suppress a groan.

Eames wipes his mouth and stands, kissing Arthur, sharing the taste. Arthur grips the lapels of Eames ill-fitting suit coat and allows himself to be kissed whilst he waits for his brain to come back online. Once he feels steadier he reaches for Eames' belt buckle and is surprised when his hands are batted out of the way.

"No, darling. I'm saving that for later. After this job,we're going to fuck for days," he punctuates his statement with a gentle bite to Arthur's neck; not enough to leave a mark but enough for Arthur to feel it for the rest of the day.

Eames gives him one last peck and goes to wash his hands, inspecting his face in the mirror for signs of Arthur's come. He seems satisfied and dries his hands, tossing the paper towel into the trash can.

He stops with his hand on the lock and turns back to Arthur, fixing him with an intense gaze.

"Try to relax, poppet. I know it's a bit of a clusterfuck...with Cobb," he makes a swirling motion beside his head, "all doolally. But I trust you. I have faith that we'll pull this off. And then we'll celebrate," he licks his lips and eyes Arthur up and down before laughing and pulling open the door, leaving as though nothing had happened. Arthur sighs and begins straightening himself out, tucking himself away, sticky with spit. He shakes his head and goes back to his research. Cobb hasn't noticed that he and Eames have been gone, but their current chemist, Ashlee, narrows her eyes at him. He ignores her and goes back to reading bank statements from the dullest man alive, pondering who honestly needs that much cat food. 

***

When people meet Arthur they tend to take him at face value. They see the severe cut of his suit and the even more severe slicked back hair, his no-nonsense attitude and flat smile and don't go beyond that.

Arthur is fine with that, more than fine. He doesn't need any of the people he works with to know how he gets home and changes into ratty sweats and eats sugary cereal with his feet propped on the edge of his coffee table as he watches as much TV as he possibly can; The Daily Show or Cartoon Network being his favorites. He definitely doesn't need them to know that he's been carrying a torch for a man who couldn't care less for the past five years. Not even Cobb knows about that, and Cobb has known Arthur from the beginning, with off the rack suits and sticky out ears. His wardrobe has improved considerably, but his ears still stick out quite a bit.

They have an arrangement, they fuck occasionally and have each others' back always. Arthur tries to convince himself that it's good enough, that he'll take what he can get and usually that works for him. Arthur is very good at denial. He finds it harder to pretend when Eames shows up for a job with someone else's mark on him and jokingly tells Arthur _"not this time, love. Trying to make an honest man of myself."_ With Theresa, with Rob, with Ryn. They never last and Arthur always knows that Eames will end up on his front door when he's eventually gotten tired and worn out his welcome. It hurts that Eames _does_ do relationships, just not with Arthur. It doesn't stop him from loving Eames though. Arthur had accepted a long time ago that nothing would.

***

Their last job was supposed to get Cobb home, but it was a shitshow from start to finish. Thanks to Nash, or really, thanks to fucking Cobb. Arthur always imagines Eames' voice in his head when he's pissed at Cobb. _Cobb the knob._ If he wasn't such a crazy asshole then maybe they could get better architects instead of dealing with Nash's mediocre bullshit. He hadn't been all that surprised to see Saito waiting in their helicopter, more resigned. And maybe Cobb didn't work that way, but Arthur would be happy to at least break Nash's skinny kneecaps. But sadly, nobody asked him.

So now _this_ job is going to be the one to get Cobb home. This impossible clusterfuck of a job with limbo hanging over their heads at every fucking turn. Arthur is so done, he's finally going to take Eames' advice and dump Cobb. Loyalty only goes so far, and Arthur's is stretched to the limit as he fights for his life in zero gravity.

Miraculously they all wake up, Arthur can't supress the genuine smile when Cobb opens his eyes, despite his earlier fury. His smile widens as he catches Eames grinning back at him. Arthur nods once and then turns around to begin filling out his customs forms. He feels warm all over, he's just pulled off the impossible and is about to get fucked six ways from Sunday, already half hard in his trousers at the thought as he makes his way through customs and steps out into the bright L.A. sunshine.

***

Eames waits, positive that Arthur will knock any minute. He's already stripped down to his black briefs and is drinking a tiny bottle of some nameless Scotch. He's restless, his body fully awake from its ten hour nap, but his mind utterly exhausted. He's already half hard, and he's going to give Arthur only fifteen more minutes before he goes downstairs and finds someone else.

He hears footsteps before the knock comes and is already reaching for the handle. Arthur steps past him with a smirk and a quick once over.

"Do you usually answer the door in your underwear, Eames?" Arthur rests his suitcase against the armchair in the corner, and starts working on his cufflinks immediately.

Eames crowds up against him, mouthing at the back of his neck, wrapping his hands around Arthur's waist and grinding a little against his ass. 

"Pants," he corrects, squeezing Arthur's ass in reprimand.

"That's the point Mr. Eames, you aren't wearing any," Arthur teases, but his voice is already a little breathless as he presses back against Eames' fully hard cock. Eames smirks and doesn't take the bait, he steps back and laughs when Arthur isn't quick enough to smother his whimper at the loss. Eames smacks Arthur's ass a little too hard and moves over to the bed.

"Now get your kit off and come here," Eames slips his thumbs into the waistband of his pants _(thank you very much)_ and slides them off, enjoying the glazed look on Arthur's face. He kicks them to the side and crosses his arms across his chest, knowing it shows off his biceps and tattoos to best effect. He knows it's worked when Arthur growls and busies himself with all of his slippery buttons, toeing his shoes off at the same time. He doesn't bother folding his clothes, just allows them to fall to the floor. To a normal person, Arthur looked mostly unaffected, but Eames knows that this is Arthur's version of hopping around with one shoe on and tripping out of your trousers.

Eames is shocked when Arthur takes a flying leap and tackles him, legs wrapped around his waist and arms around his shoulders. He stumbles and catches his balance, hands gripping Arthur's beautiful arse, his fingers slipping in between his cheeks and their cocks grinding together, slipping stickily through each other's precome. They kiss, all teeth and tongue, both tasting like stale airplane air. It was half a holy-fuck-we-just-pulled-off-the-impossible, and half a holy-fuck-we-almost-died kiss. Eames turns them around and drops to the bed, pressing Arthur into the too fluffy comforter and knocking a few excessive pillows off as they bounce. They continue to kiss and rut against each other, the desperation tapering off until it's just kissing, sloppy and familiar.

"How do you want it, darling?" Eames hovers over Arthur, his hands planted beside his shoulders, looking down on him.

"I want you to fuck me," Arthur doesn't hesitate and punctuates it with a pointed roll of his hips, his long fingers pressed hard into Eames' hips.

"Glady," Eames tries to move off but Arthur gasps and grips him tighter.

"I'll be right back, Arthur. I just need to get the slick and a condom," he pushes Arthur's sweaty curls back off his forehead and smiles fondly down at him.

"No condom. Want to feel you inside me," Arthur nips at Eames' thumb at it brushes across his lips. 

"Are you sure?" Eames' breath hitches. It's not like they haven't gone bare before, but he can't get enough of it. Most of his other partners are adamant about protection, and if they're not then Eames always is. Arthur is the only one he trusts like this.

"Yeah, I'm on birth control still and I know you're clean," he waves his hands to indicate the many, many blood tests Saito had insisted on, Eames assumed. Eames nods, he feels like a bloody pin cushion after this job.

"I'm clean, you _know_ me," Arthur hastily adds, biting his lip, the tips of his ears turning red.

"Of course I do, love," Eames moves off him and Arthur makes a small, pained noise. When he looks back, Arthur's eyes are shut tight and his hands are fisted in the comforter. "Are you alright?"

Arthur sighs and, for a moment, looks a little lost. "No," he whispers, scowling when Eames raises an eyebrow. "Because you're standing around chatting instead of fucking me. Get a move on!" he snaps.

Eames laughs and crouches over his suitcase, sure to give Arthur a lovely view, digging the slick out of the side pocket of his carry on. Always prepared, like a bloody Boy Scout.

He crawls back on the bed between Arthur's legs, slicking his fingers, slipping just one in and grinning when Arthur huffs impatiently.

"Eames, more," he demands, tilting his hips up a little. Eames obliges and adds a second and third right after, giving Arthur no time to adjust. That's what he gets for being a bossy bottom. Eames scissors and crooks his fingers, stroking gently against Arthur's prostate, feeling him tighten and shudder. He slips his fingers out, ignoring Arthur's whine of protest as he slicks his cock up with more lube and pauses to watch Athur, his cock lying hard against his stomach and oozing precome.

"I've always loved how you come over all flushed, darling," he gloats.

"Shut it, Eames."

Eames spreads Arthur's legs wider and grabs his cock and rests the head against Arthur's tight hole, giving a few thrusts between his ass cheeks to tease himself. He pushes in gently, leaning forward to brace his hands next to Arthur's shoulders. Arthur's mouth falls open and he opens his eyes to watch Eames' face, his pupils are blown wide, but Eames can still see something serious there. He closes his eyes and bottoms out, clutching Arthur's shoulder and gasping as he rocks his hips minutely. He slips his hands underneath Arthur and presses against his lower back.

"Hold on, Arthur," he murmurs into his skin and sits back on his heels, hauling Arthur with him. Arthur doesn't even flail, he takes it all with his usual grace and tucks his knees against Eames' hips, gripping his broad shoulders. Eames lets go of his grip on Arthur's back, reclining on his hands and Arthur dimples down at him.

"Oh I see how it is. You want me to do all the work," Arthur braces himself and lifts up agonizingly slowly and drops back down at the same mind numbingly slow speed. Eames feels Arthur clench around him every time he lifts up. He buries his face in Eames' neck and bites hard, soothing it with his tongue. He speeds up as though he can't help it, his nails gripping into Eames' shoulders, leaving half moon marks, his head thrown back. He stops suddenly and grinds his hips down in circles. Eames sits up a bit, running his big hands down Arthur's sweat slicked sides and gripping his hips as he grinds back up, meeting Arthur's downward strokes. He can tell when he hits Arthur's prostate by the way his body stutters and he lets out a loud moan. He doesn't try and find it again; thrusting up and catching it every third or fourth stroke. Their chests slip slid and Eames can feel Arthur's cock leaking all over his stomach. He's mesmerized by the way Arthur's stomach muscles flex and strain as he bounces up and down, his breath coming faster and faster.

"Are you going to come?" he asks, leaning back again to watch Arthur move. He circles his hips lazily, the pleasure feels hazy and he wants it to last. Arthur doesn't answer, just moans out Eames' name and nothing else, his ass squeezing tight around Eames' cock. He slaps Arthur's bum and Arthur lets out a cry, gripping harder and pausing for a moment.

"Lift up, if you please," Eames slides his hands underneath Arthur's thighs and holds him up and still. He grips tight and begins pounding into Arthur, quick and hard. Arthur drops his head back and moans obscenities, attempting to thrust down against Eames but he can't move in his position, with Eames gripping him tightly, so he goes still and yells Eames' name, allowing him to do the work for once. Eames watches Arthur's slack mouth and red sticky out ears, laughing when he comes untouched. Eames comes right after feeling Arthur's aftershocks clench around him, unable to stop himself even if he'd wanted to.

Arthur slumps forward, forehead resting on Eames' shoulder, his breath coming in heaving gasps. Eames manhandles him off, wincing at the squelching of lube and come as his cock pops out of Arthur. He lies him back on the bed and pets him, slicking his hand through the mess on Arthur's stomach and goes so far as to stick a finger in Arthur's still open hole to feel all of him, and that thought makes him feel a little dizzy; making a wet mess inside brings out the possessive monster in him.

He balls up the top sheet and uses it for a cursory clean up on both of them before tossing it to the floor and leaning over the bed to fish around for the comforter they'd knocked off in their lust. He pulls it over both of them and drapes an arm across Arthur, blinking muzzily when Arthur rolls into him and kisses him, open mouthed but still soft and sweet. Eames brushes his lips across Arthur's forehead and mutters his goodnight and it doesn't take long for both of them to nod off.

***

Arthur wakes up quickly; his eyes fly open and his heart thuds when he sees the empty space beside him. He shouldn't have expected any less, Eames doesn't stick around, it's not his style. In his initial sleepy moments, he'd half hoped that this time would be different. He closes his eyes and breathes, counting backwards to ten. He's not going to lie here, in a bed smelling of sex and Eames, and cry. Not going to happen. His breath hitches once or twice, but then he has himself under control, locking down any unwanted emotions.

He stumbles out of bed, getting tangled up in the comforter, and trips before he catches his balance. He finds his briefs from last night and slides them on, considering ordering room service for breakfast. But he needs a shower first. Today is going to be a lazy day, he may not cry in bed but he isn't too proud to wallow a bit. He steps into the living room part of the suite and stops in his tracks.

Eames is lounging on the love seat, reading the LA Times and scoffing to himself occasionally. He's wearing a worn, soft looking pair of pajama bottoms and nothing else. He lowers the paper and beams at Arthur.

"Good morning, sleepy head." 

Arthur gapes at him.

"Have a shower then, poppet. I've ordered breakfast and then I thought maybe we could have another go," Eames waggles his eyebrows and smirks before returning to his paper.

"I thought you'd left," Arthur mumbles and heads off to the bathroom.

When he emerges, scrubbed free of come and sweat, the food has arrived. Eames has ordered all of Arthur's favorites and takes great pleasure in presenting them to Arthur with a flourish.

"They had those lovely blueberry crêpes you raved about so much last time, and ham...not bacon," he points to each plate, describing the dishes and grins when Arthur nods and sits down.

"You don't even like blueberries, Eames," he says, as he takes a few bites from each plate.

"But you adore them, darling. I can eat your ham," he snakes a hand across the table and steals a forkful.

Arthur swallows and tries not to let himself read too much into it. Eames has always been thoughtful and charming, just because he's here the morning after, for the first time ever, that doesn't mean anything. They eat and sip coffee, discussing their contributions to the Fischer job. Eames makes Arthur tell him about the zero gravity three times before shaking his head in awe and favors him with a fond smile.

They move to the couch, pressed closed together and trading bits of the paper back and forth, pointing out stories the other one might appreciate. Arthur finally begins to relax and allows hope to twist painfully in his chest. 

When Eames snatches the paper from him and pulls him off the couch and back into the bedroom, Arthur is more than happy to go. He rides Eames slowly, leaning forward and panting into Eames' mouth; Eames' long fingers gripping his hips hard as he leaves stinging bites across Arthur's shoulders and collar bones. He collapses on top of Eames, kissing lazily as they come down and Arthur feels that twist again as Eames cuddles up behind him and drags him closer until they're pressed together from chest to ankles.

"We're going to get stuck together this way," Arthur complains quietly, not truly caring.

"There isn't a person on Earth I'd rather be stuck with, love," Eames murmurs into the nape of Arthur's neck, gently brushing his lips across the skin there and nuzzling his nose into Arthur's hair.

Arthur falls asleep with a smile on his face, feeling safe and warm in Eames' octopus grip. 

***

Arthur wakes from a fuzzy dream; an unfamiliar house and children that were were strangers to him. The only familiar thing was Eames, his smell and the way he felt beside him.

His hands stretch out to the empty side of the bed. He shuts his eyes tight as a piece of paper brushes against his fingertips.

He doesn't have to read it to know Eames is gone this time. It'll be an apology and something cheeky and suggestive in Eames' looping, messy handwriting; always as though his brain works too fast for his hand. Arthur pulls the comforter back around his shoulders and curls up around a pillow, his knees tucked up against his chest, and lets himself cry this time. In the bed surrounded by the smell of sex and Eames, he hates himself for being so weak and pathetic, but he doesn't know how to feel any differently.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: a brief and callous mention of abortion

Ari looks ready to burst into tears, her face red and her brown eyes wide and unblinking. Yusuf just looks pragmatic, and maybe a little sheepish, as he hands the results to Arthur. The sheet crumples in his shaking fist, and Arthur takes a deep breath as he looks down at it.

"Well it's not as if I didn't already know," he sets it on the edge of Yusuf's desk, smoothing out the wrinkles and aligning it perfectly with the corners. He'd previously thought his mind would be racing when he had confirmation, making anxious plans, but it isn't. That one word floats up above all the noise and chaos, and he feels a calmness descend over him.

Pregnant.

And of course it's Eames', because who else? Arthur is a pathetic, love sick idiot who doesn't ever have sex with anyone else. 

"But I'm...was...on the pill," Arthur frowns in confusion.

"Well, I can explain that. Possibly." Yusuf nervously clears his throat, clasping his hands in front of him. "The different formula...maybe...could've messed with the effectiveness of any hormonal contraceptives you might have been taking."

"What?!" Ari cries, looking a bit pale.

Arthur tunes them out; he can't bring himself to work up any anger to throw at Yusuf. He doesn't feel anything at the moment, except a numb and distant sense of hope, rising like a helium balloon. He picks up the paper again and blinks slowly at the 'positive' result laid out in front of him in black and white. 

He checks his watch, his brain finally catching up and reminding him of all the work they have to do, as well as doctors appointments and phone calls to be made. His mom will be over the moon, she won't care about it being just him on his own; single dad Arthur, she'll just be thrilled about a grandchild.

"Do you want us to leave then, Arthur?" Ari asks quietly, her hand resting on his forearm.

"Why? We still have work to do," he pats her hand before stepping back and straightening his cuffs.

"Don't you want to tell Eames?" she asks.

"What makes you think it's anything to do with Eames?"

The look they simultaneously shoot at him makes him physically take a step back.

"It's that obvious," he doesn't bother to make it a question now he knows he hasn't been so good at hiding his feelings after all.

"Quite," Yusuf sniffs. "But if it's any comfort, I do think that Eames is oblivious."

Ari smacks him and favors Arthur with a look of pity. "You should tell him. I'm sure he'll be excited. Babies are never bad things. Bad timing sometimes...but..." she shrugs, trailing off awkwardly.

He just nods and walks back to his desk, the paper shoved to the bottom of his laptop bag. Everyone is back to working diligently when Eames returns from trailing his mark. He sets a cup of coffee beside Arthur's elbow and waits while Arthur takes a tentative sip.

It's sugary and full of chocolate syrup, more milk than coffee, and Arthur is in heaven. He has a secret love for these coffees, and of course Eames knows. He rocks back on his heels, looking incredibly pleased with himself.

"A little sweetness for you, darling," he murmurs, before wandering off to badger Yusuf about something ridiculous.

Arthur hates him. Hates how he can never stay mad at him, how he'll say or do something unbelievably shitty and then make up for it by being the only one who knows how Arthur really likes his coffee, or finding his favorite macarons when they're in Tanzania. He hates the nicknames, the way they make his stomach swoosh and drop every time, but he can't bring himself to demand they stop. He sometimes makes himself sick imagining all the other people Eames calls 'darling.'

Most of all he hates himself a little bit. He's going to have this baby, not out of any misguided trap for Eames. He's under no illusions there. No, he wants it with or without Eames. Even if it means being a single parent and possibly giving up dreamshare. The idea of being someone's father fills him with a buzzing sense of contentment that surprises him.

He drinks his coffee and decides to tell Eames after this job is over. But for now, he smothers the stupid hope that rises again; this isn't about him any more, he has a baby to think of.

***

Arthur takes it back, why the fuck would anybody voluntarily choose to do this? He isn't fucking glowing or anything even close, he's pasty and perpetually bent over the toilet. He doesn't even throw up most of the time, it's just constant nausea that never passes. He knows he'd feel better if he could just let it all out, but his stomach never cooperates.

Also, he's exhausted, and naps are his new favorite thing. He drags himself into the job and hunches over his research, swallowing back the urge to vomit and fighting to keep his eyes open. Ari keeps switching out his coffee with herbal tea and he's not going to be responsible for his actions when he stabs her in the hand with her own exacto knife.

Eames tuts at him when he emerges from the bathroom, wiping his mouth and drooping considerably. 

"You look terrible, love," he frowns, concerned.

Arthur attempts to murder him with the force of his glare, but it doesn't work because Eames simply laughs at him.

"I'm just a little nauseous," he mutters.

"Did you know that saying you are nauseous means that you're full of noxious gas. You're supposed to say 'I have nausea,' or ' I'm feeling nauseated'," Eames smirks, pleased with himself.

"Thank you for your contribution," Arthur attempts the glare again, but gives up when Eames smile shows no sign of wilting. Arthur reminds himself that Eames doesn't know; he's not deliberately being an asshole. He doesn't deserve Arthur's hormonal rage until he knows what's going on. Arthur cheers himself up by imagining elaborate reasons to send Eames out in the middle of the night to find something Arthur's craving. In the middle of the night, while it's pouring down rain. And maybe his car breaks down. 

Right now, he wants something salty and maybe chewy. Or crunchy. He can't decide and it's driving him crazy. Also the smell of Yusuf's chemicals are making his stomach give another lurching turn. He stands and grabs his jacket, shrugging into it with great difficulty.

"I'm taking an early day. I'll see you tomorrow," he announces. He ignores the look of shocked disbelief on Eames' face and lets the door swing shut behind him.

***

The job is a success, even with Arthur sitting topside. Yusuf came up with an excuse about Arthur having the flu, and how he might unwittingly affect the dreamscape. It really is a shame because he would've liked to be able to shoot Eames once or twice, in the knees. He's already arranged an appointment with the same doctor that Mal had used, but he knows without a doubt that he's about two months along. He isn't showing, unless he lies flat on his back; and even then he only has the tiniest bump and his pants fit slightly weird. For the first time, he despise his usual aggressive tailoring. Why don't they make bespoke suits with elastic waistbands? He imagines the horrified look on Gianni's wrinkled face if he were to ask. His poor tailor might keel over with shock.

Arthur had wanted to ease Ari in after the whole Inception debacle, so it was a simple, quick job; an hour tops, and then they clean up, wiping fingerprints from the mark's desk and paying the doorman as they leave.

Eames wiggles his eyebrows at Arthur before they go their separate ways, and Arthur gives given him a brief nod. He feels a little guilty, knowing Eames is expecting a very different kind of night from the one Arthur has planned for him.

He remains fully dressed, needing the armor of wool and silk layers. He sits on the bed before standing up to pace, his hands clasped behind him, eyes turned to the ground. His usual low grade nausea has turned into a swirling storm inside his stomach as he waits.

As soon as Arthur opens the door, Eames is on him, pushing him up against the back of the door and burying his face in Arthur's neck.

"You smell lovely, Arthur. It's been much too long," he bites gently at the underside of Arthur's jaw.

Arthur takes a deep breath and attempts to gather his thoughts. Eames' warm body and wet mouth on his neck are making it more than difficult. 

"Why are you wearing so many clothes?" Eames scolds as he tries to push Arthur's jacket off, whilst remaining pressed against him 

"Stop, Eames," he manages, after a minute or two of grinding and kissing.

Eames stops kissing him but doesn't move back. "Are you still feeling poorly?"

"No. Yes. I mean...just..." he pushes at Eames' shoulders. "Can we talk please?"

Eames steps back with a frown.

"Can't we talk after?"

Arthur pauses, licking his lips. He's sorely tempted, what if Eames hates him and this is his last chance to be with him? Maybe things won't seem so dire after an orgasm? He shakes his head.

"No, Eames. This is important," he tries a reassuring smile.

Eames tenses and his eyes narrow in suspicion but he spreads his hands out. "Go ahead then."

Arthur steps away from the wall, moving further into the room. He runs his hands down his front, thinking of ways to open the conversation and rejecting them all. Eames is silent but raises an impatient eyebrow at him.

"Eames, I'm pregnant," he slumps and rubs a hand across his face. "I'm sorry, that was the worst fucking way to tell you..."

He's interrupted by Eames holding out a hand, palm toward Arthur; the universal signal for _'stop.'_ For a fleeting moment he looks furious, and then his face closes up and he shrugs.

"What's that got to do with me?"

Arthur gapes at him, his heart sinking into his stomach.

"Because it's yours, Eames," he sighs.

"How do I know that?"

Arthur can't believe his ears, the sadness turning into rage as he takes a deep breath.

"Fuck you," he spits out.

"Arthur, how am I supposed to know who you fuck? Besides, you said you're on the pill."

Eames leans on the back of the desk chair, his arms crossed over his chest and his ankles crossed neatly; he looks like they're discussing another job, or what to have for dinner. His face is expressionless, and suddenly Arthur wants to beat him senseless.

Eames examines his nails. "You're not having it are you?" his tone implies that Arthur would be stupid to even consider it.

"Of course I fucking am," Arthur doesn't trust himself to speak, he's seeing red and there's a hollowness blooming in his chest, threatening to consume his entire body.

"Don't be daft, Arthur. You can't raise a baby. Have it taken care of," he raises his eyebrows in the most condescending manner Arthur has ever witnessed.

"Get the fuck out. You're fucking disgusting. God, I hate you," Arthur tries his hardest to remain calm as he unravels on the inside. 

"No, you really don't," Eames smirks as though it's all a joke to him.

"No, you're right, Eames. I thought that we were, at the very least, friends. A friend wouldn't come in here and make me feel like shit in the middle of a crisis. A friend would..." he stops because he's close to tears now, and he refuses to cry in front of Eames. Even if they _are_ tears of rage...Eames doesn't get to see that.

"What do you want from me, Arthur? To hold your hair back when you're throwing up every morning, and change fucking nappies? Rub cocoa butter on your belly? That's not me. You can give up on your bloody dreams, but I'm not interested," Eames shrugs.

Arthur wordlessly points at the door, his hand shaking as Eames shrugs again and walks out. He doesn't yell, or slam the door, he just leaves, the door closing with a quiet click.

Arthur inhales shakily and sinks heavily onto the bed. He's still shaking, but it's starting to turn into numbness; he doesn't feel like crying any more as he stares blankly up at the ceiling. He realizes now that he should have taken Eames up on his offer. It was probably for the best though, that conversation would have been a hundred times worse if they'd been naked and recovering from frantic sex. 

He sighs and rolls himself off the bed to change and order room service. He's constantly hungry now, and he thinks he might need to throw up again.

He can't sleep that night, his back hurts and he ate something too spicy. So he spends it propped up in bed, with his laptop, starting the laborious process of disappearing for the time being. If he leaves a few bread crumbs behind just in case somebody wants to find him, he pretends they're for Ari and Yusuf. And nobody else.


	3. Chapter 3

Eames spends the next three weeks drinking and losing money in Mombasa. Every time he starts to surface, and the look on Arthur's face when he left haunts him, he orders more shots and bets more money.

He doesn't want to be a bloody father, or a husband, or whatever it is that Arthur wants from him. But he also doesn't like that he hurt Arthur. Arthur _is_ his friend and he really cocked that up. So he drinks some more, until he finds himself waking up on Yusuf's couch. His pockets are empty, he can feel a blooming black eye, and his knuckles are split. He groans and sinks back into the couch, pressing gently around his eye and hissing.

"Stop touching it, you daft idiot," Yusuf swats his hands away, and hands him an ice pack.

He levers himself off the couch slowly, his head spinning, and sits as still as he can. 

"Cheers," he presses the ice to his face gently and shrugs unhappily at Yusuf.

"You look like utter shit, my friend," Yusuf announces cheerfully. He sits across from Eames and sips his tea.

"Ta, mate," Eames mutters, his voice seeming too loud, bouncing around the inside of his skull.

"Well, some unsavory gentlemen dropped you on my doorstep this morning without a word. Is this just a regular Eames-makes-poor-life-choices binge, or did Arthur drop his news?" he pauses, "or both?"

"You knew?!" Eames glares with his good eye.

"Of course I knew. Ari too. So he told you and you ran away then?" Yusuf doesn't look disappointed, more resigned.

"I didn't bloody run away. He kicked me out."

"After you said something vile, I'm sure," Yusuf mutters. He knows Eames too well.

Eames doesn't answer, just leans back against the couch.

"You know, that Ari has a very optimistic opinion of you. She thought you'd do the right thing," Yusuf shrugs.

Eames absurdly feels guilty for letting her down, on top of all the guilt he feels over what he said to Arthur.

"What _is_ the bloody 'right' thing then? Go get a fucking house with a fucking dog in the yard and a mini van? It's not my fault that he got pregnant. He told me he was on the fucking pill, Yusuf," Eames says, defensively. 

"And he was. But I think the Somnacin mix lowered the effectiveness of it. Not to mention, Eames, those bloody birth control pills are only like 97% effective. No matter what, if you put your dick in it there's always a chance you'll make a baby. The only truly effective form of birth control is keeping your dick in your pants, mate."

"So it's your fault then," Eames points with his free hand.

Yusuf sighs heavily, truly disappointed now. His normally cheerful face is frowning, and he leans forward.

"It's nobody's _fault_ , Eames. Maybe yours for not wrapping it up, but it's a bloody baby. _Your_ baby. And don't be daft, before you say anything, of course it's yours."

"Why of course?" he sputters.

"Don't be even more of a cock potato than you've already been, Eames. We all know how Arthur feels about you, stop pretending for just a minute. It's yours. And to be perfectly honest, Eames, I've never, ever, been ashamed to call you a friend. And that's really saying a lot..."

"Oi!" Eames interrupts.

"...but right now, I truly am. I know you don't love Arthur, and I'm not asking for you to go and marry the man. I don't think even Arthur wants that, not like this anyway. But I _am_ telling you that you have to do right by that baby. Work something out with Arthur, if you truly don't want to be in its life then I suppose that's your decision. But I think it's a particularly shitty one. Even by your standards."

He stands and pats Eames on the knee before moving off to the kitchen.

"How about some leftover biryani if you'd like?" Yusuf changes the subject, and Eames knows that's all he'll say on the matter for now.

Eames just groans and lies back down, his face buried in the crook of his arm, and ignores the sting of his bruises. His mind is racing and his whole body aches. 

"Yusuf, can I borrow your laptop then?" he sits up briefly.

"I can do you one better and just give you his address, mate," Yusuf smiles. 

Eames frowns, but nods, before slumping back onto the couch.

***

"I've always said you can't trust that asshole." 

Arthur is sitting cross legged, the phone wedged between his ear and shoulder, surrounded by parts of what will eventually be a crib. Hopefully, if he can figure it out without dissolving into hysterical sobbing. Like he did the last time he tried.

"Dom, you're not actually helping," he sighs and examines the end of one slot and tries to force it into what he thinks is the right hole. He drops them both with a huff and leans back against the wall, thumping his head lightly.

"Phil, honey, please stop trying to strangle your brother." There's a pause and the sound of a scuffle, and then Arthur can hear the faint sounds of Dom explaining that fratricide is not a reasonable punishment for eating the last cookie.

"Sorry. Back. I think we...I..." Dom pauses and swallows loudly. "I still have some of James' old toys and clothes if you'd like me to dig them out."

"Mmm. Maybe. You know what I could use? A degree in engineering apparently. It's the only possible way I'll ever get anything put together. Also Ben and Jerry's New York Super Fudge Chunk. And maybe some Phish Food."

Dom laughs fondly. "Mal always craved french fries, but only from McDonalds."

"I remember. She said they were the crispiest and had the perfect amount of salt," Arthur smiles, and they're silent for a moment, remembering and mourning across the line together.

It's interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Dom, I have to go. I'll call you later."

He uses his hands to rock back on his heels and lever himself up slowly. He isn't showing much more, but he feels wrong in his body, as though it isn't even his any more. His usual grace has abandoned him and everything is a trial. The other day he'd fallen asleep on the rug because after sitting down he just didn't have the energy to get back up again.

He looks down at his baggy sweats hooked under the swell of his belly, and his t-shirt dotted with some suspicious stains and shrugs. The doorbell rings this time and Arthur pulls his gun from the side table before peering through the peep hole.

"What the fuck...?" he steps back and opens the door.

Eames is standing on the porch, a duffle bag slung over one shoulder, rocking back and forth on his feet and a sheepish smile on his face.

Arthur hates himself all over again for the pleased feeling that shoots through him at the very sight. He isn't sure whether he should be angry or excited. He mostly just feels confused and exhausted, and he hasn't even let Eames in the house yet.

"I'm sorry, Arthur. I was a right dick and I know that. I just..." he trails off, obviously expecting Arthur to spare him.

"Come in," Arthur still can't say no to him because he's a complete fucking self-sabotaging idiot.

He shuts the door and re-hides his gun before turning back to Eames.

"I've never been here before," Eames stands in the middle of the living room, eyes scanning over the furniture and bookshelves lining the walls.

"This is my actual home, Eames. It's not a hideout or a place to lay low. It's where I go when I'm not working."

"Right, yeah. Why would you have brought me here?" Eames seems almost hurt and lets out a self-deprecating laugh.

Arthur shrugs, ignoring it. "Why are you here now?"

Eames bites his lip and shoves his free hand into his pocket.

"Yusuf says I should be here for the baby."

"Yusuf did? You're here because someone told you, you 'should' be?" he makes air quotes, and laughs bitterly. 

"No. No. I mean, kind of. I know I should be. I should do this," he nods as though reassuring himself.

"You should...okay. You don't 'want' to?" he asks quietly, leaning against the door.

"Oh, yeah. Of course I want to, darling," he smiles, but it's fake and Arthur knows it. And Eames knows he knows it.

Arthur sighs and closes his eyes.

"Alright. You're going to be here for the baby." _'Not for me,'_ he doesn't add.

"Yeah. Whatever works for you. I can stay in the guest room and take you to appointments. Whatever you need," Eames' attempts at sincere leave something to be desired.

Arthur slumps, his body suddenly exhausted and he just doesn't want to deal with anything right now. He wants to go to Eames and press his face into his neck and inhale his familiar scent. Instead he brushes past him towards his room.

"Fine. Make yourself at home. I'm going to take a nap."

He shuts the door quietly and lays down on his bed. He wraps the two edges of the quilt up around his body, burrito-ing himself in, and wills his mind to shut off. For once it complies and he's out within the span of a few deep breaths.

***

When he wakes up it's twilight, and he remembers. Eames is here...to help with the baby. Their baby. He should be happy about it, and he is. Mostly. He hopes that Eames means it and will actually stay. He just needs to figure out how to tamp down his own feelings and get through the next two trimesters...and then the next eighteen years, minimum. He covers his head with a pillow and groans.

He's still stinging from Eames' words the last time they were together. It isn't that he didn't know that Eames could be a cold bastard, it just hadn't ever been directed at him before. He isn't ready to forgive, but he is ready to consider forgiving him. Maybe.

His stomach rumbles and he sighs. This baby is like a parasite, sucking all of his energy and constantly needing to be fed. Baby Parasite eating Arthur from the inside out. Arthur is convinced that it's just going to burst through his stomach one day, all teeth, and eat the rest of him. 

He rolls out of bed and shuffles into the living room, and bumps into a crib. A fully assembled crib, with sheets on the mattress, and even a little fishy mobile attached. He gapes at it, running his hands across the wood and petting the soft little teddy bear propped up in the corner.

"I didn't know where you wanted it. Not sure which room," Eames is standing on the other side. "I can move it for you."

"My room," Arthur clears his throat and blinks a few times. "It'll be in my room at first."

"Right, makes sense. Um...I made food."

Arthur notices that Eames is wearing an apron. One of Arthur's that he's never actually used; he bought it thinking he'd wear it and culinary genius would come to him, but it had languished on the shelf in the pantry next to the many boxes of cup o' soup. It's a tiny bit too small stretched across Eames' broad chest had "Mrs. Lovett's Meat Pies" emblazoned across the front.

Arthur cracks a smile and Eames smiles back, posing and flexing his ridiculous muscles.

"It suits me."

"Yeah, I guess it does."

"So, are you hungry?"

"Always," he trails after Eames into the kitchen, sniffing as he goes.

Eames spoons out some kind of stew that smells beautiful. Arthur's been living on take out and feeling like a terrible parasite host for it. It's good to finally eat real food.

"And for dessert, I got us ice cream. Ben and Jerry's." Eames announces, smiling tentatively.

Arthur accepts it for the olive branch it is and wipes at his eyes quickly when Eames turns around to get his own bowl.

"It's really good. Thank you."

They eat in companionable silence and Arthur realizes how lonely he'd been until now; in the warmth of the kitchen, Eames chattering about nothing. He feels content and allows himself to relax into it, against his better instincts.


	4. Chapter 4

Arthur has a lot on his mind; doctor's appointments, sugar tests, and blood tests. Does he actually need a bottle warmer, or is it just the scarily convincing baby marketing industry making him feel like a bad parent if he doesn't? (He just buys it just in case. It's not like he doesn't have the money he reasons.)

He's still exhausted and famished even after he's just finished a meal, and all of the eating has taken its toll. He lives in sweatpants and has slowly ganked all of Eames' shirts because they spread over his tummy better than his own. They also smell like Eames, and Arthur can't help himself. Pathetic, he knows. Luckily, the nausea has mostly disappeared, except when Eames serves him nachos with a repulsive cheese pudding on the top. To be fair, he did ask for them, but he ends up hiding in the bathroom while Eames throws it all out in the dumpster downstairs and airs out the kitchen for two hours afterwards.

At his next appointment he gets to find out the sex of the baby; he hasn't even entertained the thought of waiting until the birth. It's just not in his nature to be surprised. He has to have lists, and then lists of his lists, and he can't do that without knowing the sex. Eames is tight lipped about it, he just shrugs and defers to Arthur's good judgement on these matters.

When Eames isn't looking, Arthur watches him. He can't actually tell if it's all an act. Most of the time he does seem perfectly content, fixing dinner and even rubbing Arthur's feet while they marathon watch Teen Wolf. Arthur likes the hot guys, and lack of shirts on aforementioned hot guys, he isn't ashamed.

But sometimes, Arthur catches him with a wistful, occasionally even pained, expression on his face. Sitting staring at his laptop or just hanging up the phone in whispered tones.

"You know, you can go take a job if you want. I don't need you here constantly," Arthur tells him, only partially meaning it.

"What? No, love, it's fine. Don't fret," he kisses Arthur on the forehead and grabs up his keys, suddenly remembering some errand he urgently needs to run.

Arthur still hasn't worked up the nerve to ask Eames to stop calling him all of the pet names. He tries his best to fight down the bloom of warmth every time a 'darling' or a 'poppet' slips out of Eames' mouth, but it's becoming a losing battle and sometimes he just forgets to.

Everyday, there's a lingering feeling of waiting for the other shoe to drop, but for the most part he's content and the parasite seems happy, if the ripple of somersaults he can feel occasionally are any clue.

He only has one major complaint.

He's _desperately_ horny. He hasn't jerked off this much since he was sixteen and his history teacher wore ridiculous, low cut shirts and seemed to bend over...a lot. It's a tiny bit more awkward with his belly in the way; he can't get a hand or a dildo around to his ass and he feels like he needs to be quiet so Eames doesn't hear him. They're sad and furtive sessions that leave him feeling empty and completely unsatisfied.

He just wants Eames to fuck him. He still isn't sold on whether it's a good idea or not, but that doesn't stop him from wanting it.

The morning of his appointment he's up early, sipping coffee and flipping through the paper when Eames stumbles into the kitchen, wearing nothing but dark blue boxer briefs. He sleepily scratches his ass, the fabric lifting and revealing the curve above his thighs, then stretches and yawns, his arms flexing and his chest puffing out. Arthur slams his coffee down a bit too hard, the lukewarm liquid splashing out onto the counter.

"Eames," he grits out.

"Darling?" Eames asks around a second yawn.

Arthur stands, the chair scraping back as he crowds into Eames' space, one hand splayed across his chest, fingers scritching through chest hair. He slides his fingers down until they're resting right above the waistband of Eames' underwear, slipping the tips of them beneath the elastic and tugs him closer.

Eames stumbles forward, reaching up to grip the side of Arthur's face in his big palm.

"Yeah?" he whispers, his breath hot on Arthur's lips.

Arthur nods and closes the space between them to prove he's serious. He arches up into a kiss, allowing Eames to take control, opening his mouth and pressing his whole body against him. They're chest to chest, but his fat belly pokes Eames, preventing them from getting as close as Arthur needs them to be, and he huffs into Eames' mouth. 

***

The past six weeks haven't been terrible. Almost a nice vacation; no one has tried to rob him, kill him, or get him stuck in limbo. Cooking for Arthur, who eats his weight in food, is immensely satisfying in a way he doesn't like to examine. Seeing the baby in those dreadfully creepy 3D ultrasounds had made it hard to breathe; Eames had never had a panic attack before, but he thinks that day was as close as he's ever come.

When Arthur takes Eames' hands and presses them against his belly, they both hold their breath until there's a flurry of movement, and that makes it very real for Eames. Eames stares down, wide eyed, at his big hands spread across Arthur's stomach. Now he regularly stops Arthur and shoves his shirt up to prod gently until he feels the sprog roll, and he can never tell if he can't breathe because of fear or if it's something else that he's even more scared of admitting.

Arthur indulges him, and gives him space when he needs it. He flops down onto the couch, groaning and shoving his feet into Eames' lap.

"Feet," he demands petulantly.

"Well spotted, darling. That's what they're called. And these..." he pokes, "are ankles," Eames laughs at Arthur's frown and then pull his socks off to start rubbing his feet. It becomes a ritual, pressing his thumbs in and watching Arthur go boneless while they discuss dinner and what to watch afterwards. Arthur has a shameless love of teen dramas and Eames will never admit to getting just as absorbed in them.

He just wants to get laid, but he thinks it might be a tiny bit gauche to go out and find a one night stand when his pregnant friend is waiting at home. He still shies away from ownership, this is Arthur's pregnancy and he's just helping out. Still, he can't bring himself to go and find a pick up.

So he jerks off a lot. Over Arthur. He had no idea he has such a fierce pregnancy kink. Arthur riding him, with his hard, round belly bouncing above him, is his new favorite fantasy. He's heard that pregnant people are always desperately horny and realistically, he should be getting laid left, right and centre.

It's not like Arthur can get pregnant again, the horse has already bolted and all that. Though he wouldn't put it past bloody Yusuf to somehow "accidentally" make that happen with one of his radical formulas.

So, when Arthur presses up against him, right after Eames has rolled out of bed, warm and pliant, Eames is absurdly grateful. He wraps his arms around Arthur and kisses him back, nearly bending him over with the force of it. Arthur is wearing one of Eames' shirts again and that's another thing he didn't know turned him on until recently; his clothes sharing kink. He pulls his own shirt off roughly and shoves his trackies and pants off as far as it they'll go without pausing his kiss. Arthur uses his feet and shoves them the rest of the way off.

Arthur already has his hands down Eames' own pants, pushing them down and kneading at his ass. 

"Fuck me, Eames," Arthur moans between kisses. He can't get a proper grind with his stomach in the way but that doesn't stop him from trying. Eames presses him back with a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Just let me find the lube."

"Top drawer in my night stand," Arthur gasps breathlessly, and Eames finds that he can't move. Arthur already looks debauched, his curls standing on end, his mouth swollen, fisting his cock lazily. He laughs and waves at Eames to hurry up.

Eames stumbles out of his pants halfway to the bedroom and curses all the other crap shoved in Arthur's drawers. He finds the half empty bottle with a shout and kurt about keeps himself from running back to the living room. Arthur has moved to the couch, his legs spread wide and his head thrown back against the cusions.

"Eames, come on, come on," he's practically begging. 

"Patience, darling," Eames admonishes as he pulls Arthur to stand again. He kisses him and turns him around to kneel on the couch and drape his arms over the back. Arthur lets his head hang down and unconsciously grinds his hips in circles.

"Are you alright there, darling?" Eames runs a hand down Arthur's spine, already slick with sweat. Arthur nods, his mouth open and his eyes glazed before dropping his head back down and pushing his ass into the air. Eames drags the ottoman over and sits down, stroking his cock a few times. Arthur's ass is round and perfect and Eames wants to mark it with his crooked teeth. Arthur's cock hangs heavily between his spread legs and Eames swallows a moan that he feels has been waiting to escape him forever.

He spreads Arthur's ass with his thumbs and leans forward, licking broadly from his balls up to his hole. Arthur lets out a gasp, a little mortified at first but his shock quickly dissolves into a loud moan when Eames begins tongue fucking his hole. He presses his face in and laves at Arthur's hole, feeling sweat and spit dribbling down his chin; keeping it up until Arthur loudly demands that Eames fuck him _'right now.'_ Eames decides to stop teasing once Arthur threatens bodily harm; he may be pregnant, but he's still the most dangerous man Eames knows.

He laughs and leans back, watching Arthur's asshole; wet and shiny and relaxed. He opens the lube (reminding himself to ask later where three quarters of the bottle has disappeared to) and slicks his fingers, pressing two to Arthur's hole, gently rubbing them around. Arthur quietens immediately, pushing back against them. Eames pushes them in slowly, and Arthur groans, taking huge panting breaths. He fucks his fingers in, taking the time to stretch Arthur as best as he can when he's this horny, adding a third and scissoring them out, his knuckles bumping against Arthur's stretched rim. He skates his finger tips around Arthur's prostate; not wanting to make Arthur come just yet or over-sensitize him, but he's definitely ready, and Eames is about to pop. He stands up and gently pulls Arthur against him, his back to Eames' chest; he stumbles a bit but Eames has a firm grip on him.

"What are you doing, Eames?" Arthur comes as close to whining as Eames has ever heard, and Eames laughs quietly into his ear. He spins them around until he's sitting down on the couch and grips Arthur's hips.

"Alright, love, just sit back," he guides Arthur with one hand on his hips and another on his own cock. The head pops in and he feels Arthur shudder; sinking down on the rest of his cock heavily, his breath coming hard and fast. When he's fully seated, his hands gripping Eames' thighs tight, he rolls his hips tentatively; Eames moaning as Arthur slides up slowly and slams down quickly. He maintains the rhythm, both of them moaning and crying out, Eames focused on the play of Arthur's back muscles and the mesmerizing way his ass wobbles back into Eames' lap as he bounces up and down enthusiastically, filthy noises emanating from where they're joined. 

Arthur begins to shake, grasping at Eames' forearms and gasping as he comes across himself and the ottoman in front of the couch. Eames is so close; he lifts Arthur up and holds him there, hands firmly on his ass as he lifts his own hips, slamming into Arthur four, five times before he's coming buckets and collapsing onto the couch, Arthur falling back with him. They lie like that for what feels like an age, catching their breath, Arthur's head lolling on Eames shoulder.

"I don't think I can get up by myself. I'm like a turtle," Arthur mutters.

Eames laughs, his sore abs hurting, but he can't stop. He feels good...content, and even better when Arthur joins in. They laugh until they're out of breath and then laugh some more as they try to figure out the best way to get up off the couch; ending up with Eames shoving Arthur to the side in a heap on the couch as he laughs, completely relaxed and boneless.

Eames watches Arthur, his own laughter trailing off as his chest tightens and he realizes how wildly happy he is in this moment.

"Come on then, let's clean you up and eat. I know you're hungry," he hauls Arthur off the couch under the arms, and goes back to his routine, making food, and driving him to his doctors appointments.

***

The sex becomes a regular thing. They sleep in the same bed together more often that not, and Eames refuses to think about it any further, even when he regularly wakes up with his face pressed into the back of Arthur's neck and a possessive hand draped over his stomach. This isn't his life, he's just an interloper for now. But one day melts into another, and at some point it begins to feel like his life without him even realizing it.

After a surprisingly athletic bout of floor sex, they lie back on the carpet, breathing heavily, with their limbs tangled together. 

"What should we name him?" Arthur rubs his stomach, which is getting alarmingly round. Eames has a fear that one day it'll be too much and Arthur will just pitch over from the sheer imbalance.

"How about Eames Junior?" 

"That would be dumb. Then his name would be Eames Eames," Arthur laughs, half heartedly slapping Eames' shoulder.

"What?" Eames almost chokes on that one word.

"His last name's going to be Eames. I mean, if that's okay with you?" Arthur sounds unsure and shy.

"No it's fine, love. It's your world, I'm just a squirrel trying to get a nut," he pokes at Arthur with a lazy foot. He's okay with it, more than okay. He's getting a bit tired of finding out things about himself that he didn't know. He's a bloody forger, he knows people, himself above all. And now _another_ thing he didn't realize; his chest swelling with pride at the thought of his son, carrying on his name. Turns out that Eames is a bit of a prat, apparently.

"So then, how about first names?" Arthur tries after a few beats of silence, his voice sounding cracked and watery.

"Mmmm. How about Tarquinius?"

Arthur lifts his head and glares at him.

"What the fuck is that?"

"I'll have you know it's a very distinguished name. It was my great-grandfather's name. And my polo pony," Eames sniffs haughtily.

"We are not naming our child after a horse, Eames."

"He was very good, we were undefeated," Eames offers with a laugh.

"Oh shut up and help me get up again," Arthur waves his hands in the air, waiting for Eames to come and bear his ridiculous weight.

The discussion is tabeled in favor of more food, but Eames can't help himself thinking of names that would complement his last name. He doesn't offer any suggestions out loud though, just keeps a secret list of favorites on his laptop, hidden in several dummy folders.

***

Eames pushes a loaded cart full of free range meat and organic pineapples through the local co-op. He leans on the rail as he contemplates the selection of rice milk. Just in the last month Arthur has been rendered unable to drink cow's milk, it makes him feel sick and causes him to have the smelliest burps; Eames has dubbed them mouth farts, to Arthur's never ending chagrin. Every time he burps and turns red, Eames laughs loudly and kisses his face fondly.

Eames stops suddenly, mid reach for the chocolate rice milk, his mind frantic and his breath kicking up a notch. He's having a panic attack. Oh God, he's having a panic attack surrounded by dirty hipsters and artisan soaps. This is all too familiar, too _normal_. This isn't his life and he doesn't want it. He doesn't want to know how Arthur looks all swollen with his baby and ready to burst at any moment, he doesn't want to do the bloody grocery shopping, and he definitely doesn't want to think repulsive things like toxic burps are adorable, for fuck's sake.

_But you must want it, admit it...you're happy._ A voice of reason attempts to cut through his whirlwind of panicked thoughts.

He isn't happy. He remembers the contraption with all the confusing straps that Arthur had brought home last week, calling it a 'baby backpack.' He'd said "it'll make it easier when 'we' have to take the baby out." _We._

There isn't a fucking 'we.' He's here to help and will be off when Arthur is properly settled. When will that be? After the baby? After _his_ baby is here? He can't breath; he shoves the cart away and hurries out of the store, giving into his urge to run once he hits the parking lot.

He fumbles the keys into the car. Arthur's car. He stops and moves away from it, his hands shoved into his pockets. The bloody car seat is already strapped in, ready for the ride home from the hospital. This is not the life he chose. It isn't his fucking fault that Arthur has gone and knocked himself up.

Why has he stayed so long? He'd only meant to make sure Arthur was okay and then go, maybe send money and a few anonymous birthday and Christmas cards to keep Yusuf off his case. That was the plan, so what the fuck happened? How has he ended up perfectly domesticated? He's sickened by himself. He walks away from the car, shoulders hunched over, breathing heavily as he tries to calm himself down.

He hasn't made any promises, he's going to leave as soon as he can. He's done enough, he's tried for fuck's sake, but he can't do it. This is his new plan, to get the fuck out and never look back. Go back to _his_ life; dreamshare, and gambling, and a different warm body every night.

His mind is whirring, desperately trying to convince himself that this is the right choice. The best choice for everyone involved. Especially him. He's had enough of putting someone else first; he's not cut out for it. He just can't figure out, as he gets further and further away from the car and his current life, why he's still having trouble breathing and why he can't stop the hammering in his chest.


	5. Chapter 5

Arthur has been having terrible anxiety dreams. None of them are rational, but it's still hard to shake when he wakes from dreams where he accidentally pulls off their son's arms like a Barbie doll, as Eames stands there and laughs. In almost every dream, Eames is a mocking presence, even when he isn't physically in the dream.

Arthur hasn't had real dreams in so many years and he fucking hates that they've decided to show up again.

He wakes up from one where the baby is too slippery to hold and it keeps sliding through his arms and falling to the floor with a thud, while Eames smirks menacingly from a shadowy corner. Usually Eames is here to soothe the dream away, occasionally distracting him with sex but more frequently with cuddles and whispered nonsense until Arthur is able to slow his heart rate and fall back to sleep.

But tonight his side of the bed is empty when Arthur startles awake, sitting up as thunder rattles the windows. He laughs at himself and pushes the sheets back, swinging his legs around. Standing up by himself was a huge ordeal; he uses the bed and the night stand as leverage, swinging himself up belly first. He shuffles toward the hall, the shadows thickening as the rain starts in earnest.

"Eames?" he calls out but gets no reply. As lightning illuminates the hallway, Arthur feels a stabbing pain in his stomach, as though his whole body is a fist and it's clenching down around his insides. He gasps out, pressing his hands against the hallway wall, and inhales deeply through his mouth until it passes.

He steadies himself, shaking his head. Not now, he's not supposed to go into labor. He has a c-section scheduled in a week's time, and he has no intention of having this baby any sooner. He calls out for Eames again, but it gets drowned out by a clap of thunder. The rain pounds on the roof, and Eames is nowhere to he found; not in the living room or the kitchen. Arthur shuffles to the window and he can't see the car in the driveway, just their lone palm tree bending precariously in the wind. 

Eames went out after dinner to get some groceries, he likes to go late because it's quieter and he enjoys taking his time picking out the perfect pears and avocados. Arthur chews on his lip, worrying about all the things that could've happened to Eames.

What if he's dead in a ditch? Or in a coma with no ID? 

He avoids thinking about the worst option until his back to back calls go ignored. What if he just upped and left? What if Arthur has driven him away? He grits his teeth as pain radiates through his lower back, it's not contractions yet, but it's inevitably a warning of what's to come.

He takes a few breaths and attempts to focus. First he calls his doctor, and the on call nurse says he needs to head to the hospital because they need to stop the contractions as soon as they can. He tries Eames again and leaves a frantic voicemail, telling him that the baby thinks he's coming now and Arthur needs him there.

_Please don't be dead._ he chants in his mind as he dials Ari's number. She hadn't listened when he'd tried to hide and cut them out (he really should have known) and had flown in two days ago.

"I'm going to be the godmother, Arthur," she'd waved off his protests of being Jewish with a "Fine, I'll be fun Aunt Ari."

Well, it's time for Fun Aunt Ari to take Exhausted Fat Arthur to the hospital.

" 'lo?" a familiar man's voice answers the phone.

"Yusuf?" Arthur wonders if he's dialed the wrong number in his panic.

"Arthur?" The phone switches hands and a sleepy Ari is on the line.

"Why are you with Yusuf at 2am, Ari?" he teases.

"Oh, the usual, discussing economics and playing backgammon. Oh and the sex."

Arthur tries to laugh but another shot of pain hits him and he just gasps.

"Arthur, what's wrong?" she sounds instantly awake.

"I think I'm going into labor. I need a ride please," Arthur pants out.

"Where's Eames?" she asks, and he can hear her moving around asking Yusuf where the keys are.

"I don't know. Just hurry, Ari," Arthur's worried that he might be close to tears, but he's not sure whether it's the pain or the fact that he really doesn't know where Eames is, either way he's scared to death.

"Alright, hold on I'm coming. I'll be right there."

***

Arthur gets to the hospital twenty minutes later, terrified for his life as Ari darts through red lights and curses at other drivers. She's sent Yusuf to find Eames and insists he won't return until the missing father to be is found.

Arthur's booked, and then it's an awful waiting game of will-they-find-Eames-before-the-surgery-starts. They give Arthur something that slows down his contractions and it makes him feel foggy; as though he's moving through wet sand. Ari pats his hand, rubbing her thumb across his knuckles; she's dressed in a paper onesie and blue puffy hat and Arthur would laugh if he wasn't trembling so hard. They transfer him to a huge cold room while Ari waits in the hall, promising everything will be okay as they wheel him away.

He's shivering and terrified, he tells the nurse ten times not to forget to let Eames in when he gets here. The nurse assures him with a squeeze to his hand every time, and helps him curl up into a ball, holding his shoulders and making soothing sounds whilst they administer the epidural. She helps him lie back down and nods before he can speak.

"Of course I will. Don't you worry, you're doing really great, Daddy."

Arthur blinks back tears at her kindness. Eames isn't even here and this total stranger is being so wonderful to him. Ari comes in and sits on a little stool next to him, holding his hand and telling him how pale he looks. He can't work up the energy to tell her to fuck off.

He asks after Eames one more time, and the tight pinched look on her face makes sure it's the last time. He can feel pressure around his stomach, as though someone is pushing and pulling, vaguely knowing it should hurt but he feels numb. All over.

He blinks out of his daze when he hears a screaming cry and Ari laughs, then immediately bursts into tears. It seems like hours but it can only be a few minutes before they bring a gross, purple bundle over to him. Arthur touches his son's little nose and smiles at the way his ears already stick out. They take him away and Arthur is left in a trance as they put everything back where it belongs and staple him up.

***

Yusuf cannot believe that this is his life; asleep with lovely Ari warm by his side not an hour ago, and now he's out in the bloody rain hunting down his wayward friend. Although after this he might be downgraded. Acquaintance? No, not even that. The guy you see sometimes, and wave at, but don't actually speak to or remember their name. That's what Eames - what's his name - is going to be from now on.

His phone buzzes and he fumbles it out of the cup holder. It's a bartender who butchers his name and insists he come and get his 'buddy.' He tries to protest that Eames is not his buddy, the furthest thing from, but the bartender just gives him the address and hangs up.

Yusuf curses the entire way there, the rain has at least let up as he dashes in and blinks while his eyes adjust to the dim lighting. Eames is at the end of the bar, slumped over, a half empty beer in front of him.

"Yusuf!" he greets cheerfully. "American beer is complete shite, do you know that?"

He squints and takes another swallow before Yusuf can pull it out of his hands.

"Get the fuck up. Arthur is having your baby and you're...what the fuck are you even doing?"

"My baby? It's coming?" he asks, his eyes wide, and wipes at his mouth.

"Yeah, and you aren't there. Arthur is asking for you. Has been asking for you _all night_ , you tosser."

Eames flinches at Yusuf's words, and then shrugs. "Whatever, I don't care. I'm leaving, mate."

"It looks to me like you're getting pissed in a pub that's four blocks from your house. You didn't get very far, did you," Yusuf's patience is wearing incredibly thin.

"I was waiting for the rain to let up," Eames insists.

"Look, Eames, this is bloody pathetic, even for you."

"What?! What's pathetic?! That I don't want some fantasy, with the white picket fence, all rainbows and bloody roses? It's not real life. Life doesn't work like that and the sooner this kid doesn't have me in its life, the better off it'll be. I'm sure we can all agree on that," Eames snaps, his nostrils flaring as he rants.

"You might be right. It probably will be better off with Arthur alone than you running away all the fucking time. Either way you have to get off this stool, out of this bar, and come with me. Ari will have my head if I don't get you back."

It turns out to be surprisingly easy to drag Eames out and into the car. He slumps down in the passenger seat, defeated, and stares out the window silently. Yusuf texts Ari - 

_Not dead, just pissed. Coming now._

He doesn't bother to check her reply, knowing it'll most likely be a string of creative curse words and visceral threats. She was Arthur's protégé after all.

***

Eames can admit that he's a bit of a twat, and he accepted that a long time ago. He has no filter, and even less shame, and it's always worked for him. He's never worried about what others thought of him; always having a take me or leave me attitude, and he's never lost any sleep over it.

He's never felt less like that when he steps into Arthur's recovery room. Arthur is surrounded by his friends; Dom, Ari, and Yusuf. He looks exhausted, his cheeks pale and the little wrinkle is present under his left eye; the one he gets when he's gone too long without proper sleep.

He looks happy though, holding court with their friends. That is, until he looks up and spots Eames, still a bit pissed, and soggy from the heavy rain. His face drops, all previous contentment drains from his face, and his mouth thins out.

Eames steps forward and if he had a hat, he'd be wringing it in his hands about now. He feels like an insect under Arthur's gaze; something small and disgusting.

"Eames," Arthur's voice is full of pain and longing, and Eames thinks that 'insect' might be a step up from what he actually is.

"I'm so glad you're alive," the words feel like they should be biting and sarcastic, but Arthur's voice is so tired and sincere. Eames is speechless. He literally does not know what to say.

"Just. Go," Arthur lets his head fall back against the pillow, his hair falling across his forehead.

"Arthur. I'm sorry," Eames tries, reaching out, but not actually touching him.

"And the thing is, Eames, I believe you. You're always sorry. Genuinely so, most of the time. And if it was just me, that'd be okay. I always told myself that I have enough love for both of us, and that you care in your own way. If it was just me, then I'd take you back after every ridiculous apology. Stupid, I know, but I just can't help it," Arthur chokes a little, tears rolling down his cheeks. He fiddles with the edge of the blanket, taking several deep breaths before he looks up.

"But it's not just me. I have no self-preservation, obviously. But you won't do this to my son. He deserves better than apologies and charming excuses. He deserves better than that, Eames," Arthur whispers.

The "'better than, you" remains unspoken, but Eames knows it's being thought by every person in the room, including himself.

Arthur stares until Eames nods, completely lost for words, for maybe the first time ever.

Arthur turns his head away, facing toward the wall and Eames takes it as his dismissal, shuffling backwards out of the door, avoiding everyone's eyes.

Eames attempts to shrug it off; this is what he wanted after all. He'd tried and it wasn't good enough for Arthur. And he supposes that Arthur is right, their son does deserve better. The best thing he can do as a father is to get the fuck out.

He ends up outside a bank of windows, staring at rows and rows of little blue and pink burritos bundled into cribs. There's a man beside one, beaming proudly, taking photos of a screaming, pink-hatted baby and he turns away, feeling guilty for watching.

He lets his eyes wander until they fall on one particular blue bundle; quiet and watchful. He has lovely protruding ears and a fluffy tuft of blonde hair, his little hat knocked off to the side. Eames squints and can just about make out the words "Eames - Tarquinius Malcolm Joseph"

"Tarquinius," he mouths, his eyebrows raising, and laughs a little. Fucking Arthur.

He presses his fingers to the glass, his breath catching as the baby stares up at him. His shoulders feel heavy as he turns and walks away. Not without a backward glance or three, though.

He stands in the awning outside the hospital entrance, and tries to light a cigarette with shaky hands. He slides into a waiting cab and directs the driver to the closest airport.

Eames watches as the hospital gets smaller and smaller in the rear window, His face feels wet and he pretends it's thanks to the rain, even though it had long since stopped.


	6. Chapter 6

Arthur presses his head against his knees, drawn up to his chest. He's slumped in the coat closet, the door shut tight, and the baby monitor squeezed tightly in his hands. He can hear Quinn's hiccuping cries tapering off. He isn't hungry, or wet, and doesn't want to be held. And Arthur just couldn't do anything, so he'd wrapped him, put him down, and hid.

Every single person had told him that sometimes you just have to walk away. He'd been a bit horrified at that, when he was at the stage of fascination. He'd barely been able to let other people hold Quinn, much less leaving him to 'cry it out.' 

But it's now two months in, and Arthur is exhausted and scared. So he sits on the floor, surrounded by winter shoes, and cries along with his son. 

***

It gets easier when Quinn starts sleeping through most of the night. He sleeps best with his warm, round body sprawled across Arthur's chest, his little milky breaths snuffling into his Daddy's neck. Arthur doesn't fight it, just cups a hand around his diapered bottom and lets himself be dragged into sleep.

***

Quinn is beautiful. He has round cheeks and deep dimples, honest to god golden ringlets; like the god damn Gerber baby come to life. Arthur can't get through a grocery store run without fending off a hefty amount of cooing and unsolicited touching. He likes to pretend that he hates it, but in reality he swells with pride and indulgence every single time; of course his son is perfect.

Quinn's eyes look as though they're going to stay a grey-blue color, and Arthur wants to hate seeing Eames staring out at him every day, but it's oddly comforting. His own tiny bit of Eames that he gets to keep. Arthur knows he'll be in for it when Quinn figures out how adorable he is and begins using it to get his own way.

Ari is doing jobs now, and calls Arthur for advice on who to trust in the business, visiting whenever she's Stateside. They both pretend that Arthur isn't dying to ask if she's heard from Eames, and instead they talk about baby poop (what has his life come to?) and extractors, eating the food that Ari makes for them. Arthur is still hopeless in the kitchen and has found himself often wishing for Eames' cooking as he scrapes yet another pot of burned mush into the disposal.

He starts taking research jobs, things he can do from the house or at the local coffee shop; compiling thorough records for dreamshare jobs while rocking Quinn with his toes and humming soothing nonsense at him. He has two weeks of full night sleep when his Mom comes to visit and shoos him away when he tries to take Quinn back from her. He's never before realized how amazingly blissful long, hot showers are.

He has quiet moments of missing Eames with an ache so deep he doesn't think he'll ever be able to dig it out. He's mostly too busy to worry about it much, but it sneaks up on him during the oddest moments. It's never when he would've expected it to be; on sleepless nights, or frustrating days, or when Quinn won't stop crying, but in the moments when the sun sneaks across the kitchen in the morning and he sits savoring the quiet before Quinn wakes. Moments he wants to share with someone else, that's when he misses Eames the most.

***

At the sixth month mark he's finally able to let someone else watch Quinn so he can leave the house alone. He's miserable over it and his heart wrenches every time he shuts the door. The babysitter, Angela, is a sweet faced teenager who adores Quinn. She's frighteningly competent, a mini point man, but he still hates it.

He goes on dates, uncomfortable, forced dates that his mom sets him up on. _She's a nice girl that Aunt Ruth met at temple. My grandson needs a mommy, Arthur._

Really all he wants is to get laid, but he doesn't know just how to go about that. It'd been years of just Eames for him, so he's out of practice. He goes through the motions and smiles, pretending to care about someone's portfolio or their new car. There's one that's alright; Todd is funny and sweet, with a clean shaven face and seems interested in Quinn. They go on a few more dates and finally Arthur shoves him against the door as they get each other off with desperate tugs and frantic kissing.

After, Arthur feels empty and wrong. He thinks of Quinn sleeping peacefully at home and the fact that Arthur is all he has; Arthur can't fuck that up just so he can have regular orgasms. He apologizes and breaks things off to Todd's sputtering surprise.  
He goes home and sends Angela away, brings Quinn into his bed and cuddles up against him, watching his eyes flutter and his plush little mouth suck in and out. He always feels settled with Quinn tucked up against him, as though the connection they have stretches out thin when they're apart and snaps back like a rubber band when they touch. It feels like he doesn't realize that a piece of him is missing until he gets it back again. He curls further around Quinn and drifts off to the sound of the little baby snores against his ear.


	7. Chapter 7

Eames has been working non stop for the last four months. Any job that needs a forger, he's taken it; crisscrossing the globe and not settling in one place for longer than a job takes.

His current job has him back in Paris, it's supposed to be a relatively simple job, and the extractor is an old friend. Elijah can't stop raving about his new architect, and when Eames steps into the empty hotel room and sees Ari's petite brown head bent over a sketchpad, he feels like he should have known.

Elijah laughs at Ari's scowl.

"I see your reputation has proceeded you."

Eames scowls back a little and snaps at the ginger bastard to shut up or fill him in on the job.

Ari avoids him, circling him like a wary animal. He catches her whispering into her phone in a corner of the room, and the force of her glare might just wither a lesser man.

A week in she drops down in the chair across from him with a huff.

"You look like shit, Eames."

"Thank you, Ariadne dear," he looks at her over his glasses and waits, knowing she'll finally fill the silence without his help.

"You're a real fucking bastard, Eames. I thought better of you," she sighs. 

"Ari, I'm getting a bit sick of being told what a disappointment I am. You were there...Arthur kicked me out."

"What a crock of shit, Eames. You were supposed to fight for it."

"Was I? Well, I didn't get the bloody memo. And it's really none of your business."

He considers the conversation close and reopens the file on the mark's mistress, pretending to read as a distraction. When he looks up Ari is still there, her eyes big and wet with unshed tears. He sighs heavily and drops his head into his hands, pulling at his hair in frustration.

"I know. I fucking know, Ari. I'm. a bastard of epic proportions. It's not as if I don't know, okay?!"

"Eames, he's your kid," she mutters softly, twisting her fingers in her lap.

"Right. And the best thing I can do for him is not be around him. I'm a fuck up, we all agree on that one thing. I'm doing the best I can here."

"You're working too hard," her expression has softened and she flashes him a wobbly smile.

"Well, someone has to make all this money," he jokes without any humor.

What he doesn't say is that half of his cuts have been sent to Arthur, under an airtight pseudonym and from a discreet bank account. None of the checks have been cashed and he aches to call Arthur and demand to know why. Why won't he let Eames help in the only way he can?

"I'm not cut out to be part of a family, Ari. He's better off without me."

"You don't really believe that."

"Yes, I do. Now, can we please get back to the job at hand?" he demands, and stares at her until she shrugs and goes back to her own work station.

***

After the job is over, and Eames is lounging in a hotel waiting for his next job to begin, he receives an email. The sender is ballofyarn@gmail.com and the subject simply says:

_Because I think you're a lying sack of shit, Eames._

There's no body to the email, just two pictures. Pictures of a blond haired, dimpled baby staring wide eyed into the camera. The second one is him blinking from the crook of a man's neck, a strong hairy arm wrapped around his little body, and just a hint of the smiling mouth above his head.

Eames touches a finger to the screen, tracing it down the baby's back. Tarquinius. God, he hopes Arthur has given him a manageable nickname. His eyes linger on the smiling mouth that could only be Arthur's; he'd know that mouth and chin anywhere.

He moves it to the trash folder three different times before retrieving it and then finally hiding it in his recipe folder. He doesn't reply, but the following morning there's an audio recording of a giggling baby which makes his chest hurt as much as it makes him laugh helplessly. There's another voice, blowing raspberries, and he imagines Arthur bent over the baby's stomach growling and blowing until he squawks uncontrollably, batting at his Daddy's hair to push him away.

***

It takes ten more emails of pictures, and even one shaky video of his son snoring and farting in his sleep while Ari attempts to muffles her wild giggles behind the camera, before he sends her back a quick _Thank you._

She doesn't acknowledge it, just continues to send him emails chock a block full of adorable pictures. Naked ones, crying ones, bath-time ones. Almost all of them have Arthur in them, usually a flash of an arm, or long fingers. He daydreams about their life together; Arthur probably has them on some sort of strict schedule and changes nappies whilst dressed in three piece suits. He wonders about Arthur's body, if he's still a bit wider in the hips and softer around the middle than he was before. That ends with him lazily fisting his cock, whilst imagining fingering Arthur open and gripping hands into the thickness around his hips.

He comes all over himself and falls asleep like that, into his usual dreamless stupor.

***

He hits a wall where he cannot physically take another job after six months, and has to stop and sleep for a week. He gambles and drinks, but it doesn't have the same comfort as it used to. He can't seem to lose himself in it and it just feels like he's trying too hard. For the first time he feels like he might even be too old for this shit. He feels like an old lecher trying to hit on pretty young things, so he ends up going home alone most of the time.

He checks his email first thing. Ari has sent new photos of Quinn (she'd told him the baby's nickname) splashing in a tiny baby pool, a little blue sun hat on and his mouth open in a delighted yell, his budding tiny, white teeth on display.

He can make out the back of a shirtless Arthur, his swim trunks low on his hips, and the fine dusting of hair visible on his lower back. Eames groans and swallows, feeling only slightly like a pervert.

His hand is heavy on the keyboard before he hits reply and types -

_Tell me about him._

He adds a 'please' as an afterthought. The tone of the emails change; they still have pictures and videos, but now they're full of little stories, some occasions that Ari was present for, and others that have been passed down second hand. He laughs himself silly about the time that Quinn pooped mid nappy change and it shot across the room like a cannon. He imagines Arthur's dismayed frown and can't stop laughing.

It's seven months, and then eight months - he receives videos of Quinn crawling and pulling himself up in his crib, staring dolefully at the floor. His favorite is the one of him standing while holding onto Arthur's hands and dancing, a little squatty bounce to some horrid rap song, with Arthur encouraging him and laughing in the background.

He carries this feeling around with him all the time, joy mixed with guilt and pain. It's a huge, constant ache that he can't shake. He looks forward to every email and story, but every single one is a stab of agony to his chest.

When Quinn is nine months, Arthur starts dating. According to Ari, anyway. He thinks that she enjoys telling him about it; how Arthur has met someone who adores Quinn and takes care of Arthur. _The way he deserves,_ she types, a little vindictively.

Now the stories are about what 'they' have done with Quinn. Eames' head pounds with rage and then comes the guilt. More guilt. He doesn't have a right to say who gets to be in Quinn's life, and he especially doesn't get to say who Arthur dates. But his hate for this nameless, faceless man laps at him in waves, eroding away any rational thoughts.

He gets black out drunk alone in his hotel after his last job and wakes up feeling like a fool. He's the one who insisted that he wasn't good enough for his son, _or_ for Arthur. If they've found someone who's better than him, then he's a real cunt for begrudging them that. He doesn't have to like it, but he doesn't get a say.

He spends the rest of the day wallowing in bed, poignantly ignoring his laptop.

***

Ari sends pictures of Quinn's first birthday, it's a princess theme and contains the first actual picture of Arthur dimpling at the camera, a tiara tilted precariously on his head, Quinn perched on his hip making a grab for it.

_He's obsessed with princess movies. He'll sit for hours in front of the TV, and screams if Arthur tries to change it to Batman or something._

Eames is a glutton for punishment and he makes this one his wallpaper on his phone. His breath hitches every time he sees it. He flips through the rest of the images, the sight of his friends, and strangers he doesn't recognize but obviously play a role in his son's life, gathered there while he's alone on a job in Taiwan, feeling uncomfortable in his skin.

' _This_ is the life you wanted,' he reminds himself. 'You didn't want that life, so stop it.'

He feels like he has to remind himself more and more each day.

***

It's been thirteen months since he ran away. He turned tail and ran like a fucking coward, and he's been blaming it on everyone else ever since.

His email contains a video of Arthur's tearful voice telling Quinn that he can do it. He watches as his son takes a few tentative steps and gets so excited that he managed it, that he ends up tumbling over in excitement. Arthur scoots into the frame, scooping a giggling Quinn up and kissing all over his face, telling him he did so well.

Quinn grabs Arthur's face and squawks out a 'Daddy,' and Eames freezes.

_Right. Fuck this._

He packs his stuff and is out the door in the next fifteen minutes, headed towards the airport and the next flight to California.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the love! We kind of thought people might not like it since Eames is a bit of a jerk. Thank you for proving us wrong. 
> 
> Also I forgot to mention but all the credit for the prompt goes to Heather. Because she is a genius.

Eames is starting to have second thoughts. He can hear people in the backyard, shouting, laughing and splashing in the pool. 

Well, at least if Arthur has company he probably won't gut him with a kitchen knife. Probably. If anyone could kill a man during a barbecue and have no one notice, Arthur could. He takes a deep breath and rings the doorbell.

He waits, hears a voice laughing, rapidly approaching the door. He's actually holding his breath now, he even feels a bit dizzy. Arthur swings the door open, still talking to whoever is in the kitchen and hasn't realized who's standing at his door. He has a towel slung around his neck and his curls are longer now, dripping down his neck. He looks absolutely beautiful, shirtless and wet. Eames swallows and clutches his duffle bag harder.

Arthur finally turns around, his smile disappearing instantly, and he gapes at Eames.

"Hello, darling," Eames musters a sickly grin.

Arthur scowls and shoves Eames back until he can step out of the door and shut it behind him. 

"What the fuck are you doing here, Eames?" Arthur asks with a stab of his finger to Eames' chest.

"Uhhh...well, I know you probably don't want to hear it, but I'm sorry. I'm a fucking useless piece of shit."

Arthur crosses his arms and silently raises an eyebrow.

"I know you don't want me back. And I don't expect that, really. But I'd like to meet Quinn...be in his life. As much as you'll let me, of course" Eames tries to phrase his placation to minimize Arthur's desire to kill him.

"How do you know his name is Quinn?" Arthur narrows his eyes and before Eames can say anything he sighs, "Ari?"

Eames shrugs, not wanting to get her into any trouble and stares at Arthur's long, bare feet.

"I truly fucked up this time, Arthur," he mutters.

"This time? Eames, you're a professional fuck up."

"Too right. But this time I actually care. This time I want to make it better."

Arthur huffs and pushes wet hair off his face.

"I like it long," Eames says before he can stop himself and there's a flash of something undefinable in Arthur's eyes before he scowls once more.

"I don't give a shit what you like, Eames," Arthur snaps.

"Right. Of course," Eames hikes his duffle bag up and shoves his hands into his pockets.

"Look. Now's not a good time. Wait here."

Artur pushes the door open and slips in through the narrow crack, returning with his phone a minute later.

"What's your number?" he types it in and saves it. Eames dreads to think what he's saved under.

"I'll call you to set something up. I can't..." he stops chewing on his lip. "If you fuck us...him...over I swear to God Eames, no one will ever find your fucking body," Arthur looks at him, stony faced.

It doesn't matter that he's wearing swim trunks, standing on a stoop in surburbia with well groomed hedges and hydrangea bushes, he's more bloody terrifying than Eames has ever seen him.

Terrifying and gorgeous. Eames nods quickly and steps down and back toward the street. Arthur watches him until he gets in his rental car and drives away.

Eames lets out a breath once he can't see Arthur in the rear view any more. That could've gone worse. At least there were no stabbings. (This time.)

***

They meet at a McDonalds. Quinn seems mostly uninterested in Eames, shoving french fries in his face and babbling at Arthur. Arthur nods and makes listening noises, wiping ketchup off his face occasionally.

"He's beautiful," Eames breathes shakily. 

"Of course he is," Arthur smirks.

Eames feels off kilter, he can't find the right words and his usual smarmy charm isn't going to work on either one of them. He fiddles with his straw wrapper and watches them interact, feeling a lot like a third wheel.

Quinn points at the funscape and yells 'Down!'

Arthur fixes him with a stern look and shakes his head.

"Is that how we ask for things?"

"Down! Please!"

Even with the please tacked on, it's still obviously a demand and Eames laughs.

Arthur shrugs and helps Quinn out of the highchair, his little light up sneakers getting tangled in the straps before they get him down. He wobbles, but insists on walking, his little elbows akimbo like steadying wings. Arthur stays close, catching him when he wobbles too much and steers him around chairs.

Eames trails after them, carrying the diaper bag and drinks.

"Slide! Yellow!" Quinn points; everything is a declaration. 

He bypasses Arthur and knocks into Eames' knees. He lifts his arms and says,"Up!"

Eames takes a quick look at Arthur and, when he nods, scoops Quinn up. His body won't stop wiggling and his hands are salty and sticky around Eames' neck.

"You have to go down with him, Eames," Arthur supplies oh so helpfully.

Eames eyes the tiny plastic slide warily, not missing Arthur's smug grin. He climbs up the stairs, one arm wrapped around Quinn's waist like a football, who is giggling the whole way up. He sits himself down, wiggling to make his hips fit and hugs Quinn close to his body.

"Alright then, sprog. Ready? 1, 2, 3!" he pushes off and it's depressingly anticlimactic. He ends up having to scooch them down the slide, plastic rubbing against his skin where his t-shirt has ridden up. Quinn laughs and shouts _'wheeeeeee!'_ , even at this infinitesimal pace. He can hear Arthur laughing himself sick when he reaches the bottom.

"Again!" Quinn shouts in his ear and Arthur sits on the bench in the sun, still laughing. Eames smiles and tosses Quinn up in the air, feeling lighter then he has in the past year. Maybe ever.

***

Eames gets a flat, which Arthur refers to as his "Sad, Single Dad Apartment" with a gleeful laugh when Eames shows him.

"But look, I child proofed it all," he gives Arthur the tour, pointing out each plastic tab that keeps everything shut, and the plastic cover in every single electrical socket, even the ones Quinn couldn't possibly reach.

Arthur nods, his face neutral, "I don't think I'm ready for him to be here yet."

"No, of course. I just thought maybe, in the future. Just in case?"

They have more visits in public places. Arthur reminds Quinn that this is Eames every time they meet, but Quinn seems to think that his name is "Up." And Eames is strangely okay with that.

Gradually, he ends up spending days at their house, two or three times a week. At first Arthur won't leave him alone with Quinn, sitting on the couch tapping on his phone, pretending that he isn't watching Eames like a hawk. They watch educational shows, and the occasional Disney movie, and Eames finds himself humming "Let It Go" while he's making his dinner.

Quinn likes to pull all his toys out of his chest and then put them back, usually roping Eames into helping. Eames sprawls on the carpet while Quinn covers him with all his stuffed animals and shrieks with laughter when Eames roars and shakes them off.

Eames catches Arthur smiling occasionally. He starts disappearing into the office for an hour or two, leaving them alone, and Eames doesn't say anything, but he swells with pride at the show of trust.

Arthur continues to keep him at arm's length though, he'll only talk to him about Quinn and nothing else. Eames tries to accept it but every time his efforts are rebuffed with a stiff smile and a polite subject change, his heart sinks. But he didn't come here for Arthur, so it's fine. He'd just hoped that they could at least be friends again. Arthur treats him like a stranger, like a hired babysitter. Actually no, Arthur is more communicative with his actual babysitter than he is with Eames.

He even asks Eames to stop with the pet names. 

"It just..." Arthur closes his eyes and inhales, "...doesn't seem right. You know?"

And Eames agrees, imagining all the pain he's caused Arthur over the years without even realizing it. He really is a dick.

He shoves down the guilt and disappointment and focuses on Quinn; the most important thing here. After two months of this, Arthur corners him while he's making pancakes in the kitchen. He makes different shapes and now Quinn refuses to eat Arthur's boring, round ones. Eames isn't smug about it. At all.

"Eames, I need a favor."

Eames slides the last pancake onto a plate and hands it to Arthur with a fork.

"Yes," he replies with what he hopes is a charming smile.

"You haven't even heard what it is yet."

"Well, you've asked me to help bury bodies, Arthur. I can't imagine that it'll be worse than that."

"Fair point," he licks the syrup off his fork. "I have a date tonight and I need a babysitter."

Alright, maybe it _is_ worse than burying a body. Eames swallows and turns back to the pan, whisking more batter a little too aggressively.

"Of course I will. When do you need me?" he still doesn't turn to look at Arthur.

"Seven?" Arthur says around a mouthful.

"Right-o. Seven it is!" he reminds himself that this is his first chance to take care of Quinn by himself. He'll be putting him to bed and reading him a bedtime story.

"Thank you, Eames. For everything." Arthur touches his arm and Eames turns, forcing a smile.

"You don't need to thank me." And he finds that he means it. He _is_ happy to help.

***

Ari has turned out to be his touchstone in all of this. When he feels overwhelmed and helpless, she always puts things into perspective. Her methods are harsh, but always honest and just what he needs to hear.

"You're not here for Arthur. You didn't come running back thinking you'd be part of some happy family. You came for Quinn."

"Yeah. Of course. I just guess I hoped...I don't know what I hoped," he scrubs his hands through his hair, letting out a loud sigh.

"Eames, do you think you love Arthur now?" she asks.

"I think I do. I love the friend I had, and I know...it's shit of me to say that after I had him and lost him. Gave him up, even."

"Well, you're kind of shit in general, Eames," she laughs to soften her words. "But if you love him and Quinn, then you want what's best for them, right?"

Eames doesn't answer.

"Right, Eames?" she demands.

"Fuck. Yes."

"Okay, then you have to be ready to accept that you may not be the best thing. You'll always be Quinn's dad, Eames, but you may not get to be Arthur's partner. Someone else may get that privilege," she explains.

"I really fucked this up, didn't I?"

"Yeah. You really did," her voice is sympathetic, but she doesn't take it back. And he knows it's the truth.

***

Eames shows up early and is the one to answer the door when Arthur's date shows up. The man is taller than Eames, and good looking in a very bland way. The kind of face that can look like anyone, someone you think you've met before because it's not memorable. Eames is maybe being uncharitable. Possibly.

He shakes the man's hand and introduces himself as Quinn's dad, but doesn't explain any further. Scott takes it in stride and smiles at Quinn. Quinn claps his hands and shouts, "Sot!"

"Hey, little man!" Scott squats down on the floor and ruffles Quinn's curls. He reaches behind his ear and pulls out a plastic toy, acting surprised that it's there. Quinn claps and grabs at the toy, immediately putting it in his mouth.

Eames tries not to roll his eyes. Bloody magic tricks; this bloke doesn't play fair. Eames stands back, with his hands in his pockets, scowling until Arthur comes out of his room looking lovely. His trousers are tight and the sleeves of his button up are rolled up to his elbows. His hair almost reaches his collar and Eames can smell his shampoo as he passes by. His chest hurts when Scott stands and kisses him lightly on the mouth.

"You ready, babe?" he asks, wrapping a hand around Arthur's waist. His eyes are wide and he looks a little awestruck as he stares at Arthur. 

Eames balls his fists up in his pockets and attempts to keep his expression neutral. Arthur shows him the list of emergency numbers five times before finally leaving with a squeeze for Quinn. Scott waves a goodbye and the door shuts behind them.

Quinn has a complete and utter meltdown. He tries to stand, but he's so distraught he falls over and lies on the carpet screaming until his face turns red; Eames has never seen him this upset. He picks him up and Quinn kicks him and thrashes so violently that he's scared he's going to drop him, so he puts him back down. He watches a minute while he wails out 'daddy' and 'please' and 'thank you,' as though he thinks that if he uses his polite words, Daddy will come back. It makes Eames want to cry too. He offers food, and a bottle, and checks Quinn's diaper, narrowly missing getting kicked in the face. Finally, he just lies down beside him and pats his back, making soothing noises.

It takes about twenty minutes and then Quinn seems to tire himself out, his cries turn to snuffles, and then hiccuping stuttered breaths. He turns his head to look at Eames, his big, blue-grey eyes wet and his cheeks red, whimpering a little.

"Eems," he snuffles out, making grabby hands at Eames.

"Eems? Is that me?" he asks as he slides closer and wraps an arm around the little body, finally still.

Quinn doesn't reply, just wraps his arms around Eames' neck and buries his face into Eames' shoulder.

"Ice cream?" he asks into Eames' shoulder.

"You're a right little con-artist," Eames laughs and stands up with Quinn still attached like a barnacle. "Just like your daddy..." he mutters.

Quinn lifts his head. "Daddy?"

"No, love. He'll be home soon though."

He gets Quinn settled in his highchair and dishes out some ice cream for the both of them. He leans on the counter, watching Quinn smear it around with his hands.

"You know I'm your daddy too?" He whispers, as though Arthur might hear him.

Quinn happily smushes his ice cream around, not paying attention to Eames.

"Someday I'd like it if you could call me Papa, or something."

"Eems?" Quinn asks, holding out his wet hands.

"Yeah. Eems. I guess that will do for now." he laughs and kisses Quinn's head. "I think it's time for a bath. What do you say, poppet?"

"Bubbles and duckie!" he demands, and starts straining to get himself out of the chair.

Eames gives him bubbles and duckie and they make a right mess of the bathtub, but Quinn is happy and Eames stops to take a picture to send it to Ari for a change; Quinn wearing his little towel that has a hood with cat ears on it.

He puts on Frozen for the eight thousandth time and sings along to Quinn, who asks for more when he stops. So he keeps going.

***

Arthur is nervous when Scott drops him off with another dry, chaste kiss. He checked his phone obsessively all night, but Scott understood and waved it off with a smile. 

He can't lie and say asking Eames to babysit wasn't deliberately mean. He wanted to prove that he'd moved on. Scott is a nice guy, who pretty much worships Arthur and adores Quinn. He's good for them and Eames needs to know where he stands in this.

He still feels a little guilty about it, and had worried all night about the two of them alone together. He opens the door, immediately tripping over a toy. The light from the kitchen illuminates the living room and he can see toys strewn all across the carpet. On the couch, Eames is snoring lightly, Quinn spread across his broad chest, his curls pressed up against Eames' chin. He's wearing only a diaper and Eames' arm is wrapped tightly around him, the other hand hanging off to the side, onto the carpet.

Arthur's breath hitches and he can't stop his mind from thinking that this is how it's supposed to be; coming home to his family and Eames being the one there. He sucks in a breath and shakes his head, he can't let himself think like that. He'll inevitably be disappointed again.

He has Scott. Scott might be boring, but he's safe and that's what he and Quinn need. He gently picks up Quinn, without waking him or Eames, and tucks him into his toddler bed. Quinn wakes up for a minute and asks, "Daddy? Where's Eems?" but he falls back to sleep before Arthur can even answer.

 _Eems_ He sighs and swipes at his eyes. When is he going to get over the idiot? He's getting tired of his squeezing heart.

He pulls a blanket out of the linen closet and goes to drape it across Eames' sleeping body. Eames wakes up, smacking his lips and cracking an eye open.

"You're back," his voice is rough and thick with sleep, and Arthur hates his traitorous libido.

"Yeah."

"I should go then," he makes to get up but Arthur presses him back down.

"No, it's late. Sleep here," he whispers.

He stands up to go and is stopped by Eames' warm hand on his wrist. Arthur sucks in a deep breath and turns back.

"Thank you, Arthur," Eames whispers back.

Arthur shakes his wrist free with a smile.

"You're welcome, Eems."


	9. Chapter 9

Arthur huffs a sigh as he looks around Eames' pathetic one bedroom flat. He keeps it neat, but it's not in a great area, and it's just generally shabby despite Eames' eclectic attempts at decoration.

Arthur says 'eclectic' when, of course, he means 'tacky'. 

"Eames, you spend more time at my house than here," he sighs.

Eames looks up from gathering his dirty laundry with a guilty expression. "Is that alright?"

"Yeah, of course. I'm not saying..." he pauses, chewing on his bottom lip. "Why don't you just move in?"

Eames gapes at him, his laundry spilling back out of the mesh bag.

"I mean, you only came back here to pick up laundry for fuck's sake. It's kind of a waste isn't it?" Arthur looks at the floor, the wall, anywhere that isn't Eames. "Of course, if you don't want to, that's okay too."

"You're daft sometimes, Arthur. Of course I want to, I can be closer to you...guys. You and Quinn," he turns around to stuff his clothes back into the bag, clearing his throat awkwardly.

"Eames, this doesn't change anything. You're still just Quinn's other dad," Arthur feels the need to clarify. 

"No. Right, of course. I never imagined," he laughs shakily, "I just...thank you, Arthur."

"No biggie. I'll wait in the car. We can call your landlord later then," Arthur makes his escape to the safety of the car, pressing his palms against his eyes and willing his heart to stop beating so quickly.

By the time Eames comes back down, hauling his bag behind him, Arthur has a smile ready and hopes Eames doesn't notice that it's forced.

***

"So, why so many names?" Eames smacks Arthur's hand away from the cheese he's shredding.

"What names?" Arthur scowls, taking a sip of wine.

They're in Arthur's disproportionately large kitchen, relaxing after putting Quinn to bed. Well, Arthur is relaxing, and Eames is prepping for tomorrow's Thanksgiving; Arthur is supposed to be shelling pecans for pie but he's helping himself to most of them.

"For Quinn. Little Lord Tarquinius Malcolm Joseph Eames...the third," Eames waves his hand as though he's greeting royalty.

"Shut up, idiot. Joseph because I want him to have a normal name just in case he grows up and hates Tarquinius," Arthur scowls.

Eames raises an eyebrow, "Just 'in case,' huh? Well, why Tarquinius in the first place?" he scrapes the cheese off the counter into a tupperware container and taps the lid on, seemingly oblivious.

"I wanted him to have something you gave him, besides his last name. Something you came up with," Arthur mumbles, burying his face in his glass and avoiding Eames' eyes.

Eames heart sinks, and he hasn't the heart to tell Arthur he was kidding about the name.

"Well then, what about Malcolm? That's almost worse than Tarqy," Eames shudders with a laugh.

"If he'd been a girl, I would've named her Mallorie. So, I tried to think of a male version, and Malcolm was the best I could come up with," Arthur smiles sadly, his eyes shining with tears. "It's silly, I know."

Eames moves around the counter and squeezes Arthur's shoulder.

"No, it really isn't. It's lovely, and I think Mal would have loved it. And she would've loved our little Quinn."

Arthur nods, leaning into Eames a bit before he remembers himself and sits back up, clearing his throat.

"Right, stop eating the bloody pecans. I can't make you a perfect American Thanksgiving without pecan pie. Corn syrup is a tradition to you people," Eames shudders dramatically.

Arthur steals an extra handful of them and throws them in his mouth with a smirk before Eames can rescue them for his precious pie.

***

The dinner is a success. Cobb stands in the corner and glares daggers at Eames the whole time, but honestly, Eames has been threatened by Arthur so he's really not fazed. His only complaint is MilkToast. MilkToast is his never-ever-ever- to-be-told-to-Arthur nickname for Scott. He's hanging off of Arthur like a limpet, and seems to be there every single time Arthur needs anything.

Eames is alone in the kitchen, packing up leftovers and muttering to himself, when Ari finds him.

"Yusuf says hello," she wraps her arms around him from behind. 

"It's a sad state of affairs when you talk to my best friend more than I do," he sighs.

"It'd be a sad state of affairs if he talked to you more than his girlfriend," she blushes prettily.

"Oh, is it official then? Two crazy kids in love?" he catches her around the neck and gives her a noogie, laughing as she squeals and attempts to wiggles out of his grip.

"I've seen you trying to kill Scott with your eyes all night," she laughs sympathetically.

"Oh, Mr. Arthur-Do-You-Need-Your-Arse-Wiped? Can't a bloke get some breathing room for Christ's sake?"

He begins angrily scrubbing the dishes, frowning down at the soapy water.

"Right. That's definitely why you're upset, Eames," she moves up to stand beside him and and starts drying as he hands the dishes over.

"Just, if it can't be me, why does it have to be MilkToast?" he slumps over, his hands dripping across the ledge.

"MilkToast? Because he's the world's most boring guy?" she lets out a giggle.

"Yes! Why can't Arthur see it?" he throws up his hands, splattering Ari with soapy water.

"I think he can, Eames. I think that's kind of the appeal," she explains slowly.

"Of course it is."

"But hey, Quinn seems to think you hung the stars," she smiles brightly at him, clearly attempting to change the subject.

"He does, doesn't he?" Eames grins, visibly brightening

"Yeah, Eems. He really does," she pats him on the shoulder and they return to washing the dishes.

***

Arthur is furious. He should've fucking known that the other shoe would eventually drop. Every fucking time he lets his guard down with Eames, this kind of shit happens. He's sitting in the dark living room, with the Christmas tree twinkling at him. Most of the ornaments are gathered near the bottom where Eames had helped Quinn add them. Arthur's hands had itched to fix it and spread them out evenly, but Eames had fixed him with a _don't you dare_ look. He'd controlled himself even though it drove him crazy every time he looked at it. And Eames somehow knew without him saying anything.

_"We'll have to get you your own tree next year, then. So you can have a posh version and then the Eames and Quinn version," he sniffed haughtily._

_"Well, he obviously gets his aesthetic sense from you," Arthur had pointedly looked at the eye searing, salmon colored muscle shirt Eames' had been wearing, raising an eyebrow._

Now, it's 3am and he's waiting for Eames to come home. No, actually, he's waiting for Eames to _not_ come home. This is what he's been expecting all along. He tenses when he hears a key in the lock, and he tamps down the sense of relief. 

Eames shuffles in, stumbling over a toy, and curses quietly to himself.

"Nice of you to come home," Arthur hisses from his place on the couch. "Did you come to get your stuff?"

"What?" Eames looks confused, swaying on his feet.

"Of course you're fucking drunk," Arthur throws his hands up, fighting back tears. 

"Arthur? I don't understand," Eames frowns and flops heavily onto the couch. "Why are you mad at me?"

His face looks so much like Quinn's when he's in trouble that Arthur feels the thrum of his pulse skip. 

"I was just out with Benjamin. It's his birthday," Eames leans forward into Arthur's space, close enough for him to feel his breath, and smell mint and the sour tang of alcohol.

"Who the fuck is Benjamin?" Arthur shakes Eames hand from his knee, crossing his arms defensively.

"Um...Jess' dad, from Baby Yoga? I thought I told you about it? His wife set it up for him to have a boys night out," Eames yawns.

Arthur starts to feel uncomfortably embarrassed. Benjamin, the goofy stay at home dad, the very _straight_ dad of Quinn's little friend. He vaguely remembers Eames saying something about it after he'd come home from the class a couple of weeks ago, but he also remembers being very distracted by Eames in yoga pants. He sighs and slumps against the sofa.

"You did. I'm sorry. I was just worried," Arthur uncrosses his arms and smiles sheepishly.

"That's lovely that is, someone to worry about me," Eames grins sloppily and attempts to hug Arthur, but just ends up lying half on top of him and laughing helplessly. He pushes against Arthur, trying to struggle up from his awkward position, but his hands keep slipping against Arthur's sleep shirt. 

"This is so soft, Arthur! I'd like to just lie on it, yeah? Also...mmm it smells nice. Like you," he presses his nose into Arthur's neck and inhales, causing Arthur to suppress a shudder.

"You're smashed, Eems," Arthur sighs. 

"Oh! Eems! That's me," he sits himself up and sighs happily. "Have I told you how happy you make me?"

"You mean how happy Quinn makes you," Arthur corrects, standing up.

"Of course he does. You too, though. I just wish you could trust me again, darl...sorry...Arthur," Eames looks almost comically sad, his mouth turned down, his brow creased, and his eyes wide as he gazes up at Arthur.

"I trust you, Eames," Arthur rests a comforting hand on Eames' shoulder.

"Ah...no you bloody well don't. S'my own fault though, I suppose. Still, you make me happy...just being here. I love waking up and knowing you're around. I love it when you smile at me with your gorgeous dimples. Not to mention your dead tight trousers," he tips forward and wraps his arms around Arthur's hips, his face buried into Arthur's stomach. It's not so much a hug as it is an octopus squeeze. 

Arthur laughs and runs his fingers through Eames' hair. 

"You make me happy too," Arthur whispers.

Eames just hums happily, still clinging as his eyes slip shut.

"Alright, let's get you to bed, you giant lush." 

"No. I don't want to move." 

Arthur untangles himself and hauls Eames up. He leads him by the arm to the guest room, or really what is actually Eames' room now. Eames wanders behind and pushes his face into Arthur's hair, mumbling about how good he smells again.  
"It's just shampoo. Calm down," Arthur laughs.

"Noooo, it's you. It's Arthur-y," Eames waves his hands around to try and explain what he means.

Arthur just laughs and pushes Eames to sit on the bed. 

"Let me get you some water and Advil," he leaves Eames staring down at his hands, looking grief stricken, his sudden sadness no longer comical. Arthur rushes through filling up a glass and shaking out a couple of pills, his heart racing. 

When he returns, Eames is standing again, working on his belt. 

"Can't sleep with my bloody jeans on, can I?" he gets his belt undone and slides his pants down to reveal electric blue boxer briefs and his huge, capable thighs. Arthur has a moment to suck in a breath and stare before Eames stumbles over his shoes falls flat on his ass, pants tangled around his feet. He lies out on his back and starts giggling.

Arthur laughs so hard he worries he's going to spill the water, so he sets it down and steps up next to Eames, holding out a hand to help him up.

"Are you laughing at me, love?" Eames grins up at him, all crooked teeth and twinkling eyes. He reaches up to take Arthur's hand, and hauls him down with a sharp tug. Arthur lands lying across Eames' stomach, his ass in the air and his hands just stopping himself from braining his head on the edge of the bed.

"Eames," he hisses and then lets out an injured squawk when Eames slaps his ass. Eames rests his hand there for a moment and then slowly slides it up Arthur's spine. Arthur has no other option but to melt; his head is buzzing and he feels his dick harden in his pajamas. Eames grabs him by the nearest arm and shuffles him around until they're face to face. They stare at each other, Arthur feeling Eames' erection poke against his hip. He'd like to be able to say that he doesn't start it, but he's the one who moves first, pushing himself up and meeting Eames' lips. His lips are soft and warm, and when Arthur opens his mouth in a moan, Eames swipes his tongue in. They slot their mouths together and taste each other, Eames gently biting down on Arthur's bottom lip as Arthur stutters his hips forward, grinding down against Eames' hard stomach. Eames arches up and breaks the kiss to let out a gasp. His hands glide down Arthur's hips and slip underneath his briefs to squeeze his ass, pulling Arthur closer against him.

"Eames," Arthur lets out a loud moan. It's hard to breathe and he feels sparks every time Eames swivels his hips up. He reaches down between them to push Eames' briefs down and get his hand on Eames' cock. It's hard and leaking and Eames groans when Arthur squeezes it. 

"Fuck, Arthur, you have no idea what you do to me," he gasps as he pushes Arthur's pajamas down just enough to press their bare cocks together. Arthur licks his hand, tasting Eames' precome, until it's messy and slick, and wraps his hand around both of them. The angle is awkward and he can't move much; all he can do is hold them against each other while they both rut up into his fist. They kiss again, frantic and messy, and Arthur has missed this so fucking much.

Eames presses a dry finger to Arthur's hole, not pushing in, just rubbing against it until Arthur stops breathing and comes all over his fist. He gasps as though he can't get any air, and when his vision clears again he slides down Eames' body and mouths at the head of Eames' cock. Eames clenches his fists into the carpet fibers and arches his back.

"I'm really close," he manages to get out between moans as Arthur deep throats him easily. He holds Eames' hips down and pulls off with a pop, spit and precome dribbling down the shaft. He gets back to it, one hand wrapped around the base as he bobs his head, rubbing his tongue all across Eames' cock. Eames is writhing, making tiny thrusting movements, when suddenly he stills and tells Arthur to stop.

Arthur pulls off and blinks at Eames, who has his head raised and tilted to one side, and his eyes narrowed.

"I think I hear Quinn," he whispers.

"I don't hear anything," Arthur licks the head of Eames' cock and is gratified when Eames makes a desperate sound in the back of his throat. 

"No. I definitely hear him. Budge off," Eames pushes Arthur gently off him, and rolls to his knees and then to his feet, pulling his up pants and buttoning them quickly before leaving in a rush. Arthur lies on his back and frowns at the ceiling; Eames just turned down an orgasm to go tend to their son. 

Who the fuck is he? Where the fuck is Eames? 

Reality starts creeping in. He's given in and had sex with Eames on the bedroom floor without them even removing their clothes. Maybe half sex? Can you have just a little sex? A sextita? Arthur groans and stands, grimacing at the sticky feeling of come and sweat on his stomach. He shuffles into the hallway and peeks into Quinn's room where Eames has folded himself into the tiny toddler bed and is humming Quinn to sleep with a Disney song. Probably something from Frozen. (Again.)

Quinn is mostly asleep but Eames hasn't stopped yet, and Arthur feels the fight leaving him. He grasps for it desperately, terrified not to have something to hold up between himself and Eames. Without the anger he's completely fucked. 

He ducks away and into his own bedroom, shaking off the feeling and focusing on cleaning himself up. He notices his phone blinking at him and checks it to see a few missed texts from Scott.

"Fuck," he whispers. He hasn't even thought of Scott for the past few hours, his mind soley focused on Eames, as it has been more and more of late.

He drops onto his bed and puts a pillow over his face, in an attempt to hide from everything, like an ostrich. He doesn't sleep that night and when Eames comes by and knocks, his voice soft and pleading, Arthur pretends not to hear him.


	10. Chapter 10

Arthur wakes up to a creeping sensation. He opens his eyes to see Quinn's big eyes inches from his face, he grabs his Daddy's face and he says. "Meeelk."

"Meelk?" Arthur reaches out and lifts him up, dragging him across the bed, "Did you say milk or tickles?"

He uses his long fingers to find all the ticklish spots he's previously discovered. Quinn shrieks and tries to roll away, he gets so worked up that he starts giggling uncontrollably when Arthur just points at him, not even touching him. Arthur rests his head gently on Quinn's soft tummy and pretends to sleep, making loud snoring noises. Quinn pushes at his head and tries to wiggle out from under him.

"Wake up, Daddy! You squash Quinn!"

"Oh right, you're just so soft. I thought you were my pillow. Are you sure you're a Quinn?"

Quinn fixes him with a stern look, which Arthur recognizes as his own.

"I'm Quinn. I am two," he holds up three fingers. Arthur grabs his hand and pushes the one down, kissing the remaining two.

"Where's Eems?"

"Kitchen."

Quinn quickly loses interest in Arthur's antics and wiggles down off the bed backwards, toddling out of the door without so much as a goodbye.

Arthur groans and wonders if he can just hide in bed until Quinn is eighteen. He knows has to face Eames after last night, but he really doesn't want to. He aches to feel Eames on top of him, to be able to just kiss him as a normal part of their day, but he's also scared to go into the kitchen and have Eames expect something that he isn't sure that he can give. He isn't ready to decide, but the need for coffee wins out, so he drags himself out of bed and pads barefoot into the kitchen.

Arthur sees the remains of Quinn's eggs on the table, and Eames standing in front of the stove. He looks over his shoulder and smiles at Arthur.

"Eggs in a basket?" Eames offers.

"Hole-in-the-bread-egg, you mean?" Arthur corrects with a small smile. It's an old fond argument.

Arthur slumps on his stool, his chin in his hand and blinks gratefully when Eames slides a black coffee over the counter and leaves it beside his elbow.

He nods in thanks and sips it. Eames makes two plates of eggs and sits across from Arthur, who is quiet until he finishes his first cup of coffee, getting up himself to fetch a second one.

"So last night..." he isn't sure where to start.

"You thought I'd left, didn't you?" Eames says casually as he wipes his mouth with a napkin.

"Yeah. I'm sorry," he picks at his toast, tearing a piece off and dipping it into the yolk.

"Don't be. I don't mind proving myself to you over and over, Arthur. You deserve to have that," he touches Arthur's arm. "But, look at me, I'm not going anywhere. Not today, not tomorrow, not in five years. I'm here for you, and for Quinn, however you'll have me."

"Do you regret last night?" Arthur half whispers.

"In a way, I do. I don't want that Arthur." Eames mouth is set in a thin line.

"Oh," Arthur feels his chest caving in, and closes his eyes, dreading Eames' next words. 

"I don't want want we had. I...Arthur, please look at me," Eames is tugging at his own hair in frustration. He stands and moves around the counter to stand next to Arthur. He turns Arthur to face him, the stool swinging easily around, and steps into the V of his legs.

"I mean it. I'll take you as you'll have me, darling," he cups Arthur's neck and runs a thumb across his bottom lip. Arthur wants to sink into Eames and let go, but he keeps his eyes trained on Eames' familiar ones.

"I want to be with you. I love you desperately, and I won't lie and say I always have, but I do now. I love you wholly. And I love our son, more than I ever thought was possible. I can't go a day without seeing you and all I want to do is make you smile however I can. I want us. I want to be a family. "

Arthur lets out a shaky breath, one he didn't even realize he was holding.

"But I'll respect whatever you want. It's so absurd how this is the most important thing to me, I've been selfish for far too long. Now it's your play, love. And I'll accept whatever you decide, right?" he leans in and kisses Arthur, a press of lips and a slow swipe of his tongue against Arthur's bottom lips, cupping his face with both hands. He ends the kiss and steps back.

"I'm going to go and check on Quinn." Eames' face is red as he rocks back on his heels, chewing on his lower lip. Then he turns abruptly and walks away.

Arthur nods, dazed by Eames' confession. And the kiss. He takes a deep breath and buries his face into his arms on the counter, not sure he shouldn't have just stayed hidden in his room.

***

Arthur oscillates between wildly happy and ready to start a new life, to inconsolably furious that Eames chose _now_ to confess his fucking love. When Arthur has this life, this independence, and doesn't need him anymore.

He's lying, he'll always need Eames. Eames is a tug at his heart that he knows will be there for the rest of his life; even without Quinn he would've never stopped loving the man. He could move on and love someone else, but it wouldn't ever fully go away.

No matter what his decision about Eames, he knows that he has to break up with Scott. The man deserves someone who won't dry hump his ex on the bedroom floor. Someone better. Not to mention that he'd never wanted to dry hump Scott, anywhere. The sex was nice. That was the best way to describe it...nice and satisfactory. They both came, and enjoyed themselves, but it was never desperate and lacked any kind of passion.

Scott, as predicted, is a perfect gentleman about it. He says he understands and hopes that they can still be friends. The funny thing is, Arthur thinks he actually means it; he's incredibly sincere.

When he's showing Arthur to the door he shrugs, and with a smile he says,

"I kind of figured I could never compete with Eames. Even before I met him in person."

Arthur immediately feels like a giant asshole and nods sadly, knowing that Scott is right. 

***

"Look, it's a legal job. And it's going to be a month, tops. It pays well, and don't fucking lie to me, Arthur. I know you miss it," Ari bellows down the phone at him.

He does miss it and Ari is very persuasive.

"What about Quinn?" Quinn looks up when he hears his name and beams at Arthur.

"Isn't that why Eames lives with you, Arthur? Make him prove himself for fuck's sake. Also, I'm going to murder the next bullshit, incompetent point man I have to work with. You really spoiled me, Arthur."

"Well. I _am_ the best," Arthur doesn't even attempt to hide his smug tone.

"Yes, you are. And I need you. Tell Eames you're coming and that he'll have to deal with it."

It's been a week since their unfinished frottage session and Eames hasn't pressured him one tiny bit. When Arthur had come home in a funk after speaking to Scott, he'd been worried that Eames would take that as permission to start something up again. But all he'd done was make Arthur a grilled cheese and sit with him while he moped and watched reruns of Friends.

Arthur has no idea what to do now. He knows what he wants; he wants Eames. He wants Eames in his room, not the guest room. And for Quinn to call Eames 'Dad' or 'Papa'. He wants them to raise their child together and maybe even have more.

Most of all he wants Eames by his side; his reassuring, solid weight and his sharp mind. They were once the best dreamshare team ever, and he wants that again. To be a team, a parenting team, and maybe even a work team again.

Ari's right, and he probably needs some time away to clear his head.

"Eames, I have a favor to ask."

***

Eames will be sad to see Arthur go; a whole month without him lies ahead. He tries to focus on all the one on one time he'll get with Quinn, and all the fun things they'll do together. He's happy for Arthur, who looks pleased to be wearing his poncy suits again, and had been walking around with a helpless grin plastered across his face for the last few days, but he knows how much he'll miss the man.

He leaves before Quinn wakes up in the morning to catch his flight to Venice. He hesitates at the door, gripping his rolling suitcase while the taxi honks impatiently.

"Thank you for this, Eames."

"Not at all, Arthur."

"Can you...can you call me darling again?" Arthur says all in a rush.

"Course I can. Darling," Eames beams at Arthur and grips the door jam to stop himself from grabbing him and kissing the adorable blush off his face.

Arthur leans into Eames' space and brushes his mouth against Eames', a quick press and then he whirls away, almost running toward his cab without a backward glance.

Eames sighs heavily and rubs his mouth where he can still feel the heat of Arthur. This is going to be a long month. 

***

"Arthur, you have no idea. I've cleaned up more vomit and shit than I can even explain. He took his diaper off and there was a trail...a _shit_ trail, darling. "

Arthur is obviously muffling a hysterical laugh over the phone.

"I'm really sorry, Eames."

"No you fucking aren't," Eames grumbles petulantly.

It's gone midnight in California and Arthur is up and about, getting ready for his day in Italy; Eames can hear him munching toast and slurping his coffee.

"Well the pediatrician said it was just a bug, right? So it should be over soon."

"Oh, your compassion knows no bounds, you tosser," Eames replies.

Arthur laughs again and Eames relaxes into the familiar sound. "Eames, you'll be fine. I had to hide in the closet a few times when he was a baby, he had the worst colic. Which I'm pretty sure translates to screaming your head off for no apparent reason night after night.

"I do miss you, poppet." Now that Arthur allows him, he might be overdoing the pet names, but he can't help himself.

"You only miss me because you want someone else to clean up the shit."

"Nope," Eames says with a sigh, reclining on Arthur's bed.

"I know. Me too," Arthur quietens, and sighs back.

They talk every night...morning...about nothing, and Eames spends the whole time lying in bed, grinning wildly at the ceiling, unable to quite believe that this is his life.

Arthur has been gone for only a week and it seems like a lifetime. Eames had initially been horrified about how much he hurt for Arthur's stoic presence, but then he'd finally just given in and wallowed along with Quinn. Quinn misses Arthur by throwing temper tantrums and clinging to Eames as though he might leave too.

Eames copes by sleeping in Arthur's bed and wearing his shirts, stretching them out to fit his bulk and sniffing them shamelessly throughout the day.

Another week goes by and Eames has to go grocery shopping. He's irrationally nervous about going without Arthur. What if he freaks out again? What if he freaks out with Quinn in tow? He'll never forgive himself if he messes this up with Quinn, first and foremost. So he confesses to Arthur.

Arthur is quiet and Eames can hear him breathing down the line.

"I didn't know that," Arthur's voice is husky, and maybe a bit wobbly.

"I acted like a cunt and ran away. You knew that."

Arthur laughs, short and sharp. "Yeah, just not the details I guess."

Eames is quiet this time, waiting for Arthur to work it through. He hears him take a few more deep, ragged breaths.

"I trust you, Eames. I think you're just being paranoid. Probably because I'm not there."

"I haven't been shopping without you since then. I think I've developed some kind of phobia," Eames knows he sounds panicky and maybe a bit crazy. 

"Don't be ridiculous, Eames. I know you're here to stay, okay? And I also know that you'd never do anything to hurt Quinn," Arthur's voice is back to its usual deep and steady tone.

"How do you know?" Eames whispers.

"Because I do. I know you," Arthur's voice brooks no arguments and a knot Eames didn't even know was there begins to unravel in his chest.

"Alright. I'll go tomorrow then. Thanks for listening to me ramble, love."

"You're welcome, Eames. I'll talk to you later."

***

Arthur feels relaxed and confident. Being a parent is fucking hard and he has no idea what he's doing from one day to the next; he's mostly just winging it. But dreaming, that comes without effort to Arthur. He'd been a little worried he'd get into his first dream and not remember how to build, or even realize he was in a dream.

But he steps onto the cobblestone streets and begins twisting the canals around, buildings shooting up out of the filthy water without a pause. It's like flexing a muscle he hasn't used in a while and it feels good to stretch it out again.

He isn't the architect, of course, but after showing him the layout Ari lets him play until the timer runs out. He wakes with a grin and an almost uncontrollable urge to call Eames and have messy phone sex in the bathroom. He manages to control himself, ever the professional, but when he gets back to his hotel room he gives in and the sound of Eames spilling filthy promises into his ear has him coming with a few pulls before he drops the phone and gasps into the scratchy comforter.

Eames laughs at Arthur's dazed slur when he finally picks up the phone again. They have increasingly filthy phone sex a few more times during the job, but mostly they talk. Arthur is still confused; Ari says he's overthinking things and Eames just tells him,in patient tones, to take his time.

"I want you to be sure. I want all of you, darling."

The pet names aren't new of course, but the way they make him feel is. Instead of a sad, lonely, twinge, they give him a shiver and he feels warm and wanted.

The job is a success and Arthur pretends not to care as he finishes cleaning up and checks in with each team member about their pay out. His voice is controlled and crisp, but inside he's screaming with joy. He'd thought he'd never do this again, and now he's stepped back in and kicked this job's ass. He can't wait to tell Eames.

It feels odd to take a direct flight home; Government contract jobs mean he doesn't have to take three or four different flights before heading home. Quinn and Eames are standing in arrivals with a sign that is very obviously a Quinn original. Scribbles cover the whole thing and Arthur can just make out the word 'Daddy' beneath all of the colors.

Quinn jumps from Eames' arms to Arthur's and he just barely has time to drop his luggage and catch him. He squeezes him, his eyes shut tight, able to breathe fully again until Quinn starts to wiggle and huff.

"Can't breathe, Daddy," he whines.

Eames brushes his mouth against Arthur's temple and they grin at each other over Quinn's head. Arthur's heart twists and he knows he's finally made up his mind. He just hopes that he's made the right choice. He has to do what's best for Quinn, always.

At home, Arthur frowns at the state of the kitchen. It's chaos, the cupboards are full to bursting with sugary snacks and chips. Eames blushes and refuses to look directly at him.

"Well. I guess you got over your fear of shopping by yourself," Arthur raises an eyebrow.

"Uh...yeah," Eames rubs the back of his neck, a sheepish grin on his face.

"Why do we have sixteen different kinds of marshmallows?" Arthur holds up two bags to demonstrate.

"Look, darling, Quinn is very hard to say no to. He looks at me with those dimples and his big, hopeful eyes and his little sticky out ears. I just can't do it. He's very persuasive," Eames explains petulantly.

"Well, I guess you're banned from doing the shopping from now on," Arthur smirks.

"Arthur...does this mean you want me around longer?"

"You'll always be Quinn's dad, Eames. Can't change that," Arthur shrugs.

"Oh. Is that it?" 

Arthur sighs, setting down the marshmallows and stepping back away from Eames. He can't bear to look at Eames' crestfallen face for long. He takes a deep breath and hopes Eames can't hear his thudding heart. He feels sick to his stomach and doesn't know where to start.

"Look. We need to talk."

Eames raises his eyebrows and braces his hands against the counter. He nods tightly, his shoulders a tense line.

Arthur takes a huge breath and lets it out in a huff.

"I love you, Eames. You're infuriating and you scare me so much. Terrify me, actually. But I love you no matter what I do. I love you even more than I ever have. I don't know if I've said, but I can see how much you've changed and I...just...thank you for that. Quinn loves you, Eames, and I...love you too."

Eames is still standing on the other side of the counter, staring at him with his eyes wide in shock.

"I'd like to try this, for real this time. Of course if you don't want to I underst....mphmm!"

Eames vaults himself over the counter, which Arthur had no idea could be so fucking hot, and has him pressed against the cabinets, attacking his mouth.

"Yes, yes, Arthur. I love you too. I know I haven't shown you, but oh my days, Arthur. I'll spend the rest of my life proving it to you, I promise," he punctuates the sentence with huge sloppy kisses. 

Arthur sags against him and kisses back, feeling an overwhelming sense of relief.

"Eames, you have to be gentle with me. I think soon I'll be able to believe this. But just give me time, okay?"

"Of course, anything you need."

Eames lifts Arthur up onto the counter, stands in the V of his legs and kisses him. It's without finesse, it's desperate, and gasping, and mingled with both of their tears. 

"Daddy?" Arthur looks across to see Quinn standing in the doorway in his little footie pajamas, rubbing his eyes.

"Yeah?" Arthur lets out a breath and tries to stop grinning and crying.

"Why are you sad?" Quinn asks when Arthur hops down and scoops him up into his arms.

"Oh no, baby. These are happy tears."

Quinn nods sagely, because two year olds know everything; infinite wisdom and all that.

"I want a story," Quinn demands, sated by Arthur's protest of happiness.

"I think we can arrange that,poppet," Eames ruffles his hair and leans into Arthur.

"Do you think we can persuade Eems to sing to us?" Arthur hides his grin in Quinn's hair as Eames scoffs, but ultimately agrees.

They squeeze Quinn between them in their bed, and after two stories and one and a half renditions of "Under the Sea," they all doze off still clinging to each other in their sleep, Arthur feeling truly warm and safe for the first time in a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, happy endgame. All that's left is the epilogue, hopefully you stick around for that.


	11. Chapter 11

Eames awakens to the sound of The Clash banging around in his head and grimaces.

"Ari, I adore you, really I do. But if you don't pick something less jarring next time I'll have to kill you. And Arthur'll help me hide your body. And you know that means you'll never be found!"

Ari just laughs at him as she continues winding up the PASIV wires, bobbing her head to the music still playing in the background. Yusuf stands over him with his clipboard, his eyes sweeping from Eames to his other guinea pig, Joanna.

"I think I was a bit too uninhibited," she fidgets, a blush rising across her pretty cheeks.

"How so?" Yusuf has his pen poised.

"Well, I wouldn't have been able to get any information out of her with her tongue down my throat," Eames expands cheerfully.

Joanna clears her throat and drops her head into her hands. Yusuf hums and makes a few marks on his paper; nonsensical to all but himself. 

"Right then, I'll make some adjustments and we'll meet again after the weekend."

Joanna leaps up, gathering her purse, and makes a hasty exit. Anyone would think she's embarrassed.

Eames smirks and stands, tugging his lapels straight with a flourish.

"Oh don't look so smug, it was the formula, not you," Ari shakes her head at him.

"Right, sure it was. You know I've still got it," Eames winks and takes his leave.

On the drive home, he taps his wedding ring nervously against the steering wheel, in anticipation of seeing Arthur. 

He lets himself into an uncharacteristically quiet house. From the kitchen, he can see Arthur through the glass doors standing out on the deck, his arms akimbo as he stares at the pool.

Eames steps out, the door squeaking as he shuts it, but Arthur doesn't turn around, not even when Eames stands flush against his back and wraps both arms around his waist; he just slides his hands down Eames' arms and pulls him closer.

"Where's little Lord Tarqy, then?" Eames hooks his chin over Arthur's bony shoulder.

"At Dom's. Sleepover. How were the experiments? No weird side effects?" he looks vaguely worried, knowing exactly what Yusuf is capable of.

Eames isn't interested in talking about his day, so he hums a negative sound and unwraps his arms, sliding both hands down to his lower back. He presses his thumbs against Arthur's spine and drags them out to the sides. Arthur allows his head to fall forward and huffs out a pleased sound.

Eames continues moving his hands up further; he presses in and feels as all of the tension draining from Arthur. When he reaches Arthur's shoulders he gives them a brief squeeze, and then slips his hands back down to right above the swell of his ass, wrapping hands around his hips and nibbling at Arthur's neck until he turns around.

Arthur wraps his arms around Eames' neck and presses their mouths together. They stand like that, in the moonlight, kissing slow and easy, not with even the slightest hint of a rush. It's a heady feeling to know that they have all the time in the world tonight.

Lately, with a mobile toddler, it's been all rushed hand jobs and occasional humping; interrupted by demands from Quinn more often than not.

Eames smooths his hands up Arthur's sides, stroking across his ribs and letting his nails scratch gently against Arthur's skin. Arthur pushes more into the kiss and presses their bodies closer; Eames pressing back as he feels their cocks hardening against the pressure of each other.

It's a wrench to pull back, especially with the disappointed whine Arthur makes, but Eames has plans and rutting against each other in the garden is not a part of those plans. He pulls Arthur inside the house; they have to stop a few times to kiss and divest each other of clothing, but by the time they make it to their bedroom, they're both completely naked and gasping, rubbing their already leaking cocks against each other.

Eames bites at Arthur's mouth and sucks marks across his collarbone; something Arthur will complain loudly about in the morning, but for now he arches his back and lengthens his neck to give Eames better access.

Arthur gets pushed backward onto the bed, bouncing as he grins up at Eames kneeling between his spread legs. Eames pushes them open further, running hands up Arthur's thighs, squeezing gently as he goes. He runs a finger lightly up Arthur's cock and wraps his hand around it, not moving it even when Arthur begins to squirm beneath him.

Eames can't stop looking at Arthur beneath him; the glint of his husband's wedding band, spread out across their bed, in their home. This is his life now, and at first he'd spent a lot of time checking his totem. When Arthur had tentatively asked if they could try to make it work, and when he'd said yes, and even after their wedding. (Maybe even _during_ it a few times, he isn't ashamed to admit.) But now, he's finally convinced himself that it's reality, and to be honest, he doesn't care if it isn't. This is his life and he wants it with a fierce possessiveness that he could never have even imagined ten years ago.

"Eames!" Arthur laughs at his dazed expression, snapping him out of it, and arches up, trying to fuck himself into Eames' fist.

"Sorry, love," he leans down and kisses Arthur with all the passion of a man who can't believe his luck, slipping his tongue in and swiping it across Arthur's bottom lip. Arthur tries to bite at him but Eames pulls back with a wicked smirk and leans across the dresser to grab for the lube. He opens it with a quiet click; Arthur watching his every move, and his hips moving in minute circles, unconsciously searching for friction. He's so turned on that his cock is leaking steadily all over his stomach, and he moans when Eames settles himself on his stomach between Arthur's spread legs. He slicks up his fingers, letting the lube warm up, before reaching forward and rubbing two fingers around Arthur's hole, just relaxing him before he tries to push in. When Arthur kicks his shoulder demanding, he slides one finger in easily, and bites his thigh when he insists on a second one right away.

He obliges and scissors them, watching as Arthur writhes above him. He pushes in a third finger, and crooks them a little, Arthur keening and arching his back completely off the bed. He's panting and his mouth is wide open as gasps wetly for air. Eames grins at his own prowess, and sucks one of Arthur's balls into his mouth, rolling it around and letting it out with a pop; he does the same for the other one as Arthur shamelessly fucks himself down onto Eames' fingers, his palms pressed firmly to the headboard for leverage.

Eames spreads his fingers as wide as they'll go and licks around and between them, fucking his tongue into Arthur's hole, ignoring the plastic taste of the lube; it's worth it for the kinds of noises he's wringing out of Arthur.

He gives it one last laving lick, right the way up to Arthur's balls and pulls his fingers out. He gracelessly scoots his knees closer, and lifts up Arthur's limp legs; he already looks wrecked, his brown eyes wide and pupils completely blown. He pulls Arthur to lie in his lap, his legs wrapped around Eames' hips. When he's slicked himself up, trying not to touch himself too much, he guides his cock to Arthur's slippery hole, rubbing the head back and forth teasingly. He pushes it in in one smooth slide, gripping Arthur's hips and rocking his own slowly. He slides his hands up Arthur's body, enticingly splayed across the bed, and gently rubs Arthur's nipples with his thumbs.

"Look, I can play with your tits perfectly like this, darling," he laughs.

"Shut up and fuck me," Arthur can't get any leverage to fuck himself down but that doesn't stop him from trying, wiggling and squeezing Eames' hips with his strong thighs.

Eames laughs again and flicks Arthur's nipples. He thrusts shallowly at first, leaning back, still fascinated with watching his cock disappear inside Arthur. Arthur is cursing and groaning beneath him, and Eames can feel the heat building up in his stomach already. He surges forward, curling Arthur's legs up, and he fucking loves that Arthur can just take it. He starts pounding his cock in fast and hard; Arthur is almost silent now his mouth hanging open and the only sounds he can make are low moans in the back of his throat.

Eames uses Arthur's shoulder to push him down harder, burying himself as deep as he can. He reaches down between them and barely gets his hand on Arthur's dick before Arthur's spurting come between them as Eames finishes with a shudder and collapses on top of him.

Arthur fidgets until his legs drop back down and he sighs quietly. He runs his long fingers across Eames' sweat slicked chest and presses kisses against his temple.

"I love you, Eames."

"Oh darling, I love you right back," Eames squeezes tightly him until Arthur _'oofs'_ with a laugh.

Arthur complains about Eames' heavy weight, and the sticky mess, for long enough that Eames finally rolls off and goes to clean himself up. While Arthur showers, Eames makes pancakes and they stand beside each other in the kitchen devouring them.

"You know, Quinn isn't supposed to be back until tomorrow afternoon," Arthur raises an eyebrow and dimples at him, as he reaches a hand to wipe syrup from Eames' mouth.

Eames laughs and reels him in by the waist before he has a chance, giving him syrup sticky kisses until it's time to go to bed and have another go around.

***

Arthur stares in horror at the broken coffee mug and promptly bursts into hysterical tears. He's been weepy lately but he chalked it up to Quinn starting kindergarten and being gone for most of the day.

"He just looks so tiny, Eames!" he'd wailed on the first day as they'd watched Quinn walk into the school, his backpack engulfing his little frame.

But now it's been two weeks and he's mostly become accustomed to the empty house. So that doesn't explain why, just yesterday, he'd been crying at a news story about a squirrel that had been hit by a car, and someone had fashioned it a prosthetic leg. Eames had looked at him utterly bewildered when he sobbed,

"They're happy tears, Eames! How can you not be happy about that?!"

Eames had nodded but changed the channel anyway, for his own safety.

And now he's crying over a broken mug. The best part is, it isn't even _his_ , it's one of Eames' god awful, ugly ones. The one with "Coffee Makes Me Poop A Lot" printed across it. He probably should have broken it on purpose now he's thinking about it. But, here it is, in pieces at his feet, and he's inexplicably hysterical.

Suddenly it dawns at him, and he abruptly stops crying and whispers, "Oh shit," into the empty kitchen.

***

"No but it's brilliant, love!" Eames beams wildly, pressing Arthur against the hallway wall and kissing him between his frantic words.

"For you, maybe," Arthur mutters.

"Aren't you happy, love?" Eames leans back, searching Arthur's face, his eyes wide with sudden panic.

"I am. I just...wanted to plan it this time. Be prepared," Arthur looks away, searching the hallway for something to fix his gaze on so he doesn't have to look at Eames.

"Oh, darling. You've got nothing to worry about. I'm going to be here every single step of the way. I'll make up for everything I missed with Quinn. I promise."

"I'm not worried about that, Eames," Arthur slides his arms around his husband's neck, and smiles for the first time since buying the pregnancy test.

"We're going to have another baby, Arthur. I hope he has your gorgeous dimples like Quinny," Eames' face breaks into a huge grin again. 

Eames is obviously beside himself with happiness, and it loosens the worry that Arthur had initially felt when he realized he was pregnant again. He'd worried a little bit; getting used to one baby had taken a lot, but was Eames staying for two? But it looks as though he is and Arthur relaxes into Eames' chest, breathing easily as he realizes that his worrying was for nothing.

"If it's a boy, can we name him Brutus?" 

Arthur frowns at Eames; maybe he hasn't changed that much after all.

"We can name all our children after Roman Emperors! It'll be a theme," he nods happily to himself, ignoring Arthur's scowl.

"And just think! When he inevitably starts copying Quinn, we can say...'Et tu, Brute?' Yeah?" he looks expectantly at Arthur, and Arthur is fairly sure he's serious.

"I hate you so much right now."

"No you don't. I am rakish, and charming, and you adore me."

"Yeah, unfortunately, I do," smiles and leans forward to kiss Eames.

"We have 30 minutes before I have to go pick up Quinn. How about we celebrate?" Arthur pushes his hips against Eames' and squeaks indignantly when Eames lifts him up and carries him into their bedroom with a laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hai on [ tumblr. ](http://sweetbutterbliss.tumblr.com)


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